


TIE Fighter: Resurrection

by ImperialGirl



Series: Star Wars: TIE Fighter [4]
Category: Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Anla'shok/Rangers, Crossover, F/M, Imperial Fic, Lots of OCs - Freeform, telepaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 126,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialGirl/pseuds/ImperialGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 3 of the TIE Fighter series. An unexpected suit for peace, a new attack from Thrawn and Thelea's past, a new alliance, and some that were lost are found again. And a galaxy far, far away has a surprise for them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Brace yourself. Here we go. If you have not yet read “Turning Point”, check that out to see how the galaxy changed when Rukh failed.

 

 

 

 _Three Months Later_  
  
There had been a time in Giriad Quoris’s life when seeing the massive bulk of an Imperial Star Destroyer appearing out of hyperspace in the midst of a raid would have been cause for relief, not a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Of course, that had been nearly six years and several lifetimes ago and he had not been in the cockpit of a two-seater Y-wing fighter, hoping that the order to disengage and make the jump to hyperspace would come before that Destroyer began either deploying its TIEs or just decided to let the turbolaser gunners amuse themselves instead.

“If you’ve got any fancy flying stunts, Squints, now is the time!” said his gunner, Lieutenant “Dag” Daggair, who even after six years of flying together had yet to mention his real, allegedly-embarrassingly-Rimworld, given name.

“If I’m about to get vaped by our own former Navy the last thing I hear better not be you calling me ‘Squints’,” Giriad said. Not least because the nickname was a reminder of his early days after Endor learning to fly the cumbersome fighters he’d once thought of only as targets, when it had been a concerted effort not to constantly compare the inelegant Y-wing to the nimble TIE Interceptors he’d been accustomed to flying. As the Rebel pilots had nicknamed the dartlike Imperial fighters ‘squints’, he’d been tagged with the soubriquet quickly and without mercy.

To be fair, he had once thoughtlessly blurted the TIE pilots’ nickname for the antiquated Y-wings: ‘ace-bait’, for their lumbering speeds and system-sized turning radius that made a squadron of them easy pickings for the faster, better-armed Imperial fighters. Enough of the pilots within hearing had friends who’d been those kill counts that he’d forfeited any real hope of their finding him a better nickname if he had to have one, even long after the distrust had faded. .

A lot of the pilots who’d been within hearing had become kill counts for other Imperial pilots in the years since. Especially in the last year. Since Grand Admiral Thrawn had made public his return with the near-catastrophic Sluis Van raid, what had been the dying flickers of a rear-guard action by the Empire had turned back into the kind of shooting war not seen since the Emperor’s death. Even the famous Rogue Squadron had been devastated in recent months, still not quite recovered from being torn to shreds at Bilbringi. Now, with the Imperial Fleet apparently cloning Star Destroyers along with crews and impregnable bastions like the Hapes Cluster turned into little more than subdued “protectorates” with their defenses broken and governments scrambling to appease the resurgent Empire, every New Republic pilot knew their next combat scramble might be their last.

This was not supposed to be one of those missions, but then wasn’t any encounter with the Empire potentially ‘one of those’ now? They were supposed to be attacking the Empire’s supply depot in the Kessel sector, easy pickings and lightly defended with a couple Carrack-class cruisers. The big ships were supposed to be nearer the Core, ideally walking into General Bel Iblis’s planned trap. That had seemed to be the case, too, with the vulnerable supply ships apparently surprised when the Rebel task force dropped into the system, easy pickings for the Y-wings and their preciously-rationed A-wing escort. It had worked perfectly, too. Right up until two Star Destroyers, an Imperial-class and a Victory-class, appeared out of hyperspace, tilting the odds abruptly and firmly in the Empire’s favor.

“Any idea who they are?” Dag asked, over the whine of his weapons charging as the larger red threat blips on the targeting computer began to disgorge a swarm of smaller blips.

“The Impstar is the _Defiance_ ,” and Giriad thought that sounded vaguely familiar but couldn’t put his finger on why. “Vic’s reading as the _Resolute_.”

“At least we don’t rate Grand Admiral Thrawn’s first-stringers,” Dag said, opening fire as the first TIEs came into range. “Hopefully they’re too busy to care about puny little raiding parties.”

“We can hope,” Giriad said, swinging them into a tight dive. There was a squeal from the astromech back in its socket. “Deesix, don’t get fried back there!”

The readout spat a string of syllables that suggested if he did, the pilot was at fault. Which was fair enough. Giriad re-trimmed the shields and engines, searching for a little more speed as he noticed the number of Interceptors among the TIEs coming at them. If they were going to get through this, it would be because of their superior shielding and bulk, but minimizing damage never hurt. R3-D6 had already gone through an ion-induced memory wipe once and was only now developing a personality again. Giraid had initially thought of the droid as an extension of the ship’s computer, but it had surprised him how much he missed Deesix’s distinctive personality when he’d gone back to his base programming.

Between Dag and Deesix, it was like having two wingmen again.

The comm cracked. “All fighters, break and find escape vectors!” Commander Akroff sounded not-quite-frantic yet, but far more tense than Giriad ever liked to hear. “Break contact and escape if you can. Break contact–“

The comm shrieked with the too-familiar sound of jamming. “So much for that conversation.” He threw the Y-wing into a steep dive, yawing back and forth as the green bolts flew past the cockpit. “Deesix, start calculating the best vector out of here.”

“Just when it was starting to get interesting,” Dag said, over the sound of his turbolaser vibrating through the ship. “At this rate I’ll never make ace in one battle.”

“I’ll settle for getting back in one piece.” Giriad thought of the holoflat tucked in his flightsuit pocket and forced himself not to.

“Old married man. Makes you soft.” Dag didn’t sound cruel about it, though.

“Gives me a reason to get home every time, and since you’re riding behind me, don’t knock it.” Giriad began scanning the navicomputer readout with a growing sense of unease. Any option above, below, or behind meant a long run within the planetoid’s gravity well, giving the faster TIEs plenty of time to close and forcing him to make the lose-lose choice between shields and engines. But the only other way out meant skirting the range of the _Defiance_ ’s turbolasers. Even a Y-wing could outmaneuver those if necessary, but the Impstar almost certainly had more TIEs than they’d launched thus far, and there was always the chance one of the turbolaser crew would get lucky.

A scroll through targeting told him that even if the _Defiance_ managed to launch another squadron, the odds would still be better than trying to turn back into the scrum of the battle.

“Hang on back there,” he said, kicking as much power as he dared to the engines. “Deesix, have jump coordinates locked in, as soon as we’re clear of the grav well we’ll go to lightspeed.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Dag said, blasting a TIE that had swung around to pursue them. “I’d offer to take Fi a message if it turns out you don’t, but since I’ll be blasted to my component molecules with you . . . .”

“You’re such an optimist sometimes, it’s really uplifting to fly with you.” Giriad wondered where he’d really picked up the sarcasm, with the Alliance, or if Rurik Caelin had really rubbed off so much? And then he wondered what had made him think of his old wingman, long lost at Endor?

The gray-white bulk of the Impstar loomed large in the viewscreen. Probably something to do with that.

“Watch it, two more from above!” Dag was firing even before Giriad pitched the nose of the fighter up, scattering the two Interceptors diving for an easy kill. The nimble little Imperial fighters were too fast to turn back on him, their superior speed carrying them far enough away he had time to throw more power to the engines and run for the gap beneath the _Defiance_. Heavier green bolts began arcing by the cockpit as the capital ship’s turbolasers opened up on them. At least their accuracy didn’t seem to have improved much.

And it was irritating how that thought still felt vaguely like treason.

Dag was still shooting, the Interceptors closing on them again. “Whatever HQ thought was so important about this system, it was overrated.”

“You can tell them that when we get back.” Giriad made a quick choice and banked, carrying them closer to the _Defiance_ ’s great hull, hoping to reach a point the turbolasers couldn’t aim on a ship at that angle. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you.” A squeal from the rear socket added Deesix’s approval.

“Oh, I’ll tell them something, all right.” Dag blasted another of the TIEs and there was a shower of sparks from its starboard solar panel.

“Not much farther now,” Giriad said, eyes on the numbers of the navicomputer as they counted down to clear space, Deesix’s escape coordinates already programmed in.

He slammed hard into his harness as their forward momentum abruptly stopped and he heard the ‘oof’ from Dag as his helmet lashed back into the seat. Deesix wailed, and through the control yoke he could feel the engines straining against an invisible grip. Invisible, but not unknown. The _Defiance_ ’s tractor beam had them firmly locked in place, and the shaking was the force of their engines trying to go forward while the Imperial ship drew them inexorably back.

The static jamming flared, then cleared, and a voice in an accent so ironically like his own said, “Rebel fighter, this is the Imperial Star Destroyer _Defiance._ Stand down and prepare to be taken aboard. Any further attempts to escape will result in your destruction.”

“What do we do?” Dag, for his part, didn’t sound afraid, but he suddenly sounded very, very quiet.

Giriad gave the throttle a final nudge, hopefully not enough to prompt the threatened obliteration, but he knew as well as Dag and as well as that cool, Core-world voice on the comm did that it was futile. Their choices had abruptly been reduced to surrender or destruction.

The holoflat in his flight-suit pocket suddenly seemed very heavy indeed. As a prisoner, there was a chance of getting home to Fi and the girls again, however remote. Dead . . . dead was dead. He and Dag and Deesix so many particles drifting in space, more names whispered in the squadron ready room, more belongs packed up and sent to loved ones.

There really was only the one choice.

He keyed the comm. “Acknowledged, _Defiance_. We’re powering down and will not resist.” He thought, but he couldn’t be sure, that he heard a faint sniff of surprise at his accent, but the comm officer didn’t speak again.

The docking bay of a Star Destroyer was still familiar, though he realized with a start it had been a long time since he’d been on an Imperial-class. The last time he’d worn black and launched in a TIE, it had been from the long-dead Executor. A lifetime and more. And that time, even if there’d been a hangar bay to return to, he would not have been met by a squad of Navy troopers, their blasters drawn and covering him.

“You realize,” Dag said quietly as he removed his helmet, “if they run our genetic scans and we show up in the computer as MIA, we’re done for.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Gir stowed his own helmet and gloves. “Deesix, you better stay in your socket. Maybe they’ll forget you’re there.” There was a soft “pfft” noise and a scroll of text on the screen. “You’re right, that’s probably wishful thinking, too.”

“Maybe they’ll just send us to hard labor,” Dag said. “There has to be a reason for taking prisoners, right?”

“Not any one I can think of. Even if what General Solo and Commander Skywalker said is true and the Empire’s cloning facility is gone, they can’t seriously think captured pilots would fly for them.” But Dag had a point. There was no reason he could think of for the Empire to take prisoners, and yet they had been making a habit of that of late. Even now he could see they were not the only Alliance fighter being forcibly docked as an X-wing, its engine nacelles smoldering, was guided into place by the docking tractors, and one of the A-wings was already docked on the bay floor, the pilot, minus helmet and gloves, kneeling on the deck plates with his hands on his head.

The major commanding the group of troopers around their Y-wing made a sharp gesture, and Giriad nodded, raising his hands so they were clearly visible. The muzzle of one of the trooper’s E-11s jabbed upward and he understood, punching the cockpit release. Behind him he heard the sharp, inadvertent gasp from Dag at the sound, and he sympathized. Carefully, he unstrapped his harness, and climbed out.

What struck him first were the smells. It was strange–despite having spent years in Imperial service, he’d never noticed the distinct scents that permeated the atmosphere of a Star Destroyer. Plassteel, in practically ever surface. That slightly-acrid cleanser the laundry used so everyone’s uniforms had the same, faint bitter scent that you eventually stopped noticing. The tang of grease and coolants unique to the hangars and to the ready rooms where the flight suits had picked it up. In spite of himself, Giriad took a deep breath, and in some part of his memory that had started to seem like a dream, it smelled familiar. Almost homelike. He didn’t dare look at Dag as they both climbed down and were unceremoniously shoved to their knees on the deck, but he wondered if the former TIE bomber pilot was having the same thought.

The sounds were familiar, too, most painfully the wail of twin ion engines powering down as the _Defiance_ ’s fighter squadrons were tractored back to their docking gantries. Giriad couldn’t help looking up and watching the trio of Interceptors being guided into place. They were bigger than he remembered, he thought absently, and they were nimble, that he did remember, watching one make a minuscule repulsor correction as it locked into place. It was a strange feeling, not being sure which thought made him disloyal–nostalgia for the quick Imperial fighters or the feeling of guilt for thinking less of his Y-wing by comparison. And to his astonishment, high in the docking racks, he could have sworn he saw the distinctive solar panel array of one of the rare, near-invulnerable TIE Defenders. Maybe _Defiance_ wasn’t Thrawn’s second-stringers after all.

A jab of a blaster rifle’s muzzle to his neck, forcing his eyes back to the deck plates, reminded him there was a distinct down side to the those TIE fighters, too.

A deck officer in the gray-drab Navy uniform approached, datapad in hand. He stopped in front of them and after a brief glance at each of them settled his gaze on Giriad. “Name, Rebel?”

Giriad gritted his teeth, and said nothing. The officer studied him for a long moment.

“Name, Rebel.”

Giriad felt another sharp poke from the blaster’s muzzle, but he kept his mouth shut. There was nothing in New Republic regs that said he couldn’t give his name and service number, but there was also nothing in it that said he had to, either. If they ran a bioscan, they’d likely find it soon enough. He didn’t have to make it easy for them.

He heard the clack of boots on the deck plate, pilots’ boots, not the plastic sound of troopers. And as the major was about to order another, harder strike with the blaster, one set of boots paused, and a voice said, “Quoris?” The tone was not hostile, but rather incredulous. “You’re Quoris, aren’t you. The 207th. Aren’t you dead?”

Giriad looked up sharply, then cursed himself for admitting it so easily by his reaction. The man who’d stopped was a TIE pilot, and as his eyes automatically searched for the rank tabs Giriad realized this was a colonel, likely _Defiance_ ’s starfighter commander. The olive skin, middling hair, and dark eyes were familiar, and as Giriad stared, memory cleared away the lines of stress and six years of aging. “Orono? It’s Zeth Orono, isn’t it?” There was a lighter poke from the blaster barrel, but it withdrew as Orono (Colonel Orono!) approached and stared back at him. “And no, still alive, last time I checked. At least one of us is still hard to kill.” Never thought it’d be me, of the three of us, but here we are.

“You’re alive–and a Rebel?” To his surprise, Orono didn’t sound mocking, just stunned. “He was so sure you got vaped . . . did they pull you out and you joined up out of gratitude? Never mind.” He looked at the trooper commanding the prisoner detail. “Major, get on the comm and tell the Captain to get down here. These prisoners don’t go anywhere until he does.”

“With all due respect, Colonel,” and there was no mistaking the barely-concealed disdain in the major’s voice, “I fail to see what interest a few captured Rebels hold that the Captain needs to be bothered personally.”

“Oh, this one’s worth it, believe me.” Orono was still staring at Giriad as if he’d seen a ghost, shaking his head. “You might want to order a holocam, too. This is going to be a reaction we’ll want to preserve for posterity. What happened?” The last was to Giriad, while the major visibly “hmphed’ but stepped away and raised his comlink.

“Like you said. They picked me up. The Empire was dying, at least it used to be, and–“ He cut himself off. The New Republic had seen no activity from the dark ships and whatever alien power controlled them since, and he’d half begun to think of it as a dream. “And besides, by the time I recovered, there were . . . other reasons to stay.”

“Dying, huh?” Orono glanced at some of the Navy troopers, and all of their laughter at least sounded indulgent. It was the laughter of people who knew they were winning and strangely enough, seemed to feel nothing but a sort of pity towards their defeated allies.

“Well, if someone had mentioned after Endor there was a tactical-genius Grand Admiral hiding somewhere waiting to make a big entrance, maybe I’d have thought differently.” The holoflat once again felt heavy in his pocket. Maybe not.

“You wouldn’t have believed it any more than the rest of us,” Orono snorted, but then he paused. “Then again, all things considered . . . the Captain wasn’t surprised. Maybe you wouldn’t have been, either.”

There was another sound of boots approaching, this the hard-heeled clack of an officer, and Giriad lowered his eyes to the deck as he felt the blaster close on his neck again. Beside him, Dag made a choked sound and whispered between his teeth, “So I’m hoping this Colonel’s an old friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Giriad hissed back. “Last time I saw him we’d all gotten into a fistfight in the mess hall on the Executor.”

“Oh. Great. So now we’re getting spaced for sure.”

Giriad was about to say something in reply, when a voice with a very decidedly not-Core accent said, “Zeth, I know I grant you a lot of leeway, but if you haven’t noticed we’re mopping up from a battle and a Captain is usually required on the bridge at such times.”

“Trust me, boss. This one, you want to be here.”

Giriad’s jaw dropped, and he nearly bashed his own head into the blaster’s muzzle looking up. The figure who’d joined Zeth Orono was, at first glance, a typical Star Destroyer captain, if a bit on the short side. Tall black boots, real leather, not synth, as befit his rank, gray drab trousers and jacket, belt with a sidearm (which seemed to be a new rule in Thrawn’s Empire), rank cylinders and comlink neatly in their pockets, the six blue and red squares on their rank plate over his heart.

The face, though aged more than a few years really ought to have caused, with a hard, grim set that Giriad did not remember, was one he had never expected to see again in this lifetime.

From the look in Rurik Caelin’s wide, astonished blue eyes as he stared at Giriad, mouth agape, he was thinking almost exactly the same thing.

 

 

Mitth’ele’arana was almost accustomed both to hearing her fullname, to having one arm that still did not entirely feel as if it belonged to her, and to being present at meetings that a real mere commander would not belong at. Almost, but not quite.

Thelea was at least physically present in the _Chimaera_ ’s command room, as were Captain Pellaeon and Master Aleishia. Vice-Admiral Parck, Captain Niriz, and the captains of the other Star Destroyers in the _Chimaera’_ s battle group were present only in hologram, something Thelea had grown very tired of in the weeks she’d been with the _Admonitor_ on their visit to the maw. It had been a productive few weeks, true, and she’d had the unmitigated delight of being there when the already-battered Hapan fleet had seen the five Destroyers- _Admonitor_ , _Hydra, Manticore, Gorgon_ and _Basilisk_ drop out of hyperspace, putting the odds suddenly and overwhelmingly in the Imperial Navy’s favor.

“And the Grand Admiral barely smiled,” Pellaeon had said that day, after she transferred back to the _Chimaera_ and he’d come to greet her. Rating a formal welcome now . . . . “But we all knew it was over. Even the Hapans.”

“We had the impression when we arrived they were already considering negotiations,” Thelea had replied as they headed for the command room. _Chimaera_ was never going to feel entirely like a home, but the corridors were familiar, the sounds and sense of the ship and her crew known to her now, and when she passed she rated only polite nods and a yielding of right-of-way that she no longer suspected was because of the company she kept. Her eyes and skin were not an unusual site either. It was strange, but a pleasant feeling. “They’d certainly taken damage, and of course it would have been the sensible thing to do, but I didn’t think the Hapans were known for being sensible.”

Pellaeon smiled and Thelea thought she saw a hint of her father’s influence in the expression. “The Queen Mother Ta’Chume hoped that she could perhaps talk the Grand Admiral into a more amicable settlement.”

“I thought the Queen’s name was Teneniel.” She did pay attention sometimes.

“It was. Emphasis on was,” Pellaeon explained. “Apparently, the dowager Queen Mother had less confidence in her successor’s ability to defend the system. Or she disagreed with the decision to stay allied to the Rebels. Whatever her reasoning, she chose to remove the queen and her consort and offer the Grand Admiral a negotiated truce, with her remaining in power in the Hapes Cluster, of course.”

“Remove. You mean . . . .” Pellaeon had nodded, and Thelea couldn’t help her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open. “She had her own daughter-in-law and son assassinated? Even by my people’s standards that’s reprehensible.”

  
“The Grand Admiral was none too impressed,” and his tone made it easy for Thelea to imagine her father’s reaction. “Nor with the implication the Queen Mother made that she would be happy to make the settlement very amicable indeed, if he were so inclined, provided she maintained her throne.”

“Gods and ancestors,” Thelea muttered in her own language, then back in Basic, “you don’t have to tell me how he took that.”

“He was even less impressed with her suggestion,” and Thelea hadn’t been sure if the note in his voice was admiration or incredulity. “I suppose I agree, though she was, for her age, quite an attractive woman. Your father showed admirable restraint.”

“Don’t be too impressed,” Thelea couldn’t help saying. “Father is . . . well, suffice to say he doesn’t approve of my own taste in human men and he doesn’t have similar inclinations where human women are concerned. To be fair, if you think we look alien to you, imagine how unusual you look to us. I was just raised poorly enough not to care.” Pellaeon, wisely, had let that pass.

Now, standing among his captains, present and holographic, Thelea understood somewhat how her father felt. He was the only other alien in the room, and as she stood at the left shoulder of his command chair with Pellaeon to his right, she marveled at how not a single one of his officers showed the slightest unease. Of course, Thrawn had given them something not even the Emperor had managed–victory after victory. It was hard to care of technicalities like race when that was true.

The holographic display showed a junction of the hyperspace trade routes, the Corellian Trade Spine where it crossed with the Rimma Trade Route near Yag’Dhul. The tiny icons indicating the shipping traffic seemed increased in number, unusually so considering the war. Some of them had to be military, and there had to be a reason the New Republic was concentrating them there.

Thrawn sat in his command chair, at his usual ease, despite the proverbial thermal detonator he’d just set off in the room.

“You’re certain, sir,” Pellaeon was the one brave enough to say, “this is bel Iblis?”

“Yes.” If Thrawn was irritated with the doubting tone of the question, he didn’t show it. “Ackbar is once again restricted to Imperial Center, Drayson is still in command of the planetary defense forces. Bel Iblis is the only logical commander. He knows that Coruscant and the Core are our highest priorities and he will want to stage a battle on his terms. The intersection of the trade routes at Yag’Dhul is a reasonable target, and increased shipping would of course, be tempting with Bilbringi damaged and our access to new capital ships limited, and would have the added benefit of crippling two vital trade routes. If he can stage the battle on his terms, it would be a prime opportunity to damage or cripple our fleet.”

“One presumes, then,” said Niriz, “we won’t be taking the bait.” Thelea saw some of the other captains, those who’d only in the last year come to know the Grand Admiral, flinch, but Niriz had been in Thrawn’s service too long to be afraid of questions, rhetorical or otherwise.

Though even he blanched at Thrawn’s reply. Had Master Aleishia not prepared her in advance, warned her about the intended plan, Thelea would have cringed, too. Instead, she was able to maintain a serene, slight smile her father had often said was a ghost of her mother’s, as her father said:

“On the contrary. Bel Iblis has chosen his ground wisely-for us. We will be attacking Yag’Dhul. And that is where we will crush the Rebel forces’ will to fight once and for all.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Rurik wasn't sure how long he stood staring, but it had to be longer than was appropriate for a captain of the Imperial Navy. _Oh, goody. A dream. This one's especially vivid, and Giriad? I suppose it's a nice change, though._ It wasn't the first time he'd had some sort of fantasy of Giriad and Thelea appearing alive and well, but as a Rebel? That was certainly a strange image.

Then it occurred to him that he wasn't asleep, this wasn't a dream, and that was, unless he had experienced a complete psychotic break, Giriad Quoris, still boyish but definitely older, in the unflattering orange flightsuit of a Rebel pilot. A Y-wing pilot, no less, as the fighter behind him and the presence of a gunner registered. He had his hands half-raised away from his head and the Navy trooper covering him moved to deliver a more crushing blow with his blaster rifle.

"Stop!" Rurik gave the order before he even realized it, but the trooper checked himself, obedience to his captain overriding any confusion. Rurik ignored the puzzled looks from the troopers, the frightened side-eye from the Y-wing gunner, and the expectant one from Zeth. (Expectant and just a trace amused; to be fair, he'd been right, this was definitely worth leaving the bridge.) Instead, he focused entirely on the figure kneeling on the deck plates, staring up at Rurik with a disbelieving expression that was probably a mirror image of his own.

"Gir . . . ." It came out before he could stop it. "Is it . . . it's really you, isn't it? You're not . . . you're really here?"

Giriad shook his head hard, as if clearing it. "Rurik! I thought–they said you were dead! They said you went into the–the Death Star, and that you were dead." He moved as if trying to rise and the troopers closed in again, but a hard look from Rurik and they backed off. "But you're alive, and you–you're a Captain? Of this whole _ship?_ " The slightly-abashed look as he realized how that sounded was so familiar Rurik felt a stabbing pain.

Still, there was the giant space dragon in the room that they were ignoring, which as captain he could _not_ ignore. "Is that really harder to believe than this?" And he gestured to the flight suit, the gunner still kneeling on the deck, the battle-scarred fighter. "A _Rebel?_ You joined the Rebels?"

There was a flicker of what might have been an annoyance in the familiar green-hazel eyes but it vanished when Giriad glanced at the troopers again. "It's been called the New Republic for a while now, you know."

There was another, quieter, snort of laughter from Zeth and the troopers. Rurik only tightened his jaw. "To the Grand Admiral, you're still Rebels. And given the way the war is going, I suggest you give careful weight to his opinion. It's going to be the only one that matters soon enough."

Giriad's jaw tightened, and Rurik felt a sinking pit in his stomach. He'd seen that sort of look on Rebel prisoners before, especially as regarded the Admiral. It was a combination of defiance and disbelief–that wasn't how the story was supposed to go, after all. Their beloved Republic was supposed to triumph, all Imperials were venial, petty creatures or ultimate evil. Thrawn simply did not fit in their conception of the galaxy. An alien, commanding the allegedly-xenophobic Empire. A tactical genius who won not by overwhelming, wasteful force but by out-commanding them.

An Admiral that the officers in the fleet would have followed from the Deep Core to beyond the Unknown Regions because they knew, in their blood and bones, that he would never ask them to spend their lives needlessly. Spend them he would, if he had to, but never without cause.

Of course the Rebels doubted it. They fought philosophical enemies for nebulous causes and had already turned on each other over the same thing. The Empire followed a leader. Giriad, of all people, ought to know better.

"I guess I have to take my chances, then," and even his words were the same as all the others. Except . . . Rurik thought there was a bit more resignation and less deep commitment there. "Since there's no pretending I'm not who you say I am, I suppose I'm looking at termination as a deserter no matter what."

Rurik had not considered that, but then, Gir was right. Or he would have been in the old Empire. "Do you think we wasted all the effort to bring your fighters aboard just so we can disintegrate you personally?"

"Maybe you're still desperate for fighters."

"Not _that_ desperate," Zeth muttered, and Rurik shot him a dark look.

"The war is going to end. Soon." In the old Empire, Palpatine's Empire, that would have been idle propaganda that Rurik wouldn't have believed even if he'd recited it as the party line. In Thrawn's Empire, it was simple fact and no matter what he thought of the man personally, he believed it as much as he believed his old homeworld's days were still twenty-six hours. It was simply how the universe worked. "And you, you of all people, Gir, ought to know we shouldn't be wasting lives killing each other. We're going to need everyone we have and then some."

"What's he talking about?" Dag said, then glanced uneasily at Rurik and the Navy troopers and fell silent again.

Giriad grimaced. "Something that happened before Endor." The destruction of the freighter they'd been escorting, the _Aris Val_ , almost felt like a dream. Never mind the assault on Telamara, the Outer Rim colony that happened to be Rurik's homeworld. "Something from beyond the Rim."

"And getting closer every day," Rurik said. "This Rebellion and its absurd experiment with resurrecting a dead Republic is wasting time that we could be using to prepare, or even begin moving against them and their allies in Wild Space. You saw what their ships can do. You should understand, even if your Rebel friends don't, that we can't afford to waste manpower, too."

Giriad visibly bit down a flare of temper, a spark of the old, arrogant kid Rurik remembered. "I haven't seen those ships since the day I left Telamara to contact the fleet, when you and Thel–"

Before he could finish the name there was a flash of motion at the corner of Rurik's vision. Zeth, his eyes frantic, was giving Giriad the universal pilot's wave-off signal. Rurik turned slowly, fixing his squadron commander with a flat gaze and Zeth froze, trying and utterly failing to look innocent. But Giriad, clearly, had caught his meaning and fallen silent: Thelea was a forbidden subject with _Captain_ Rurik Caelin, and from the look on his face he knew why that must be. Even if Rurik was miraculously here, alive, when for six years Gir had written him off as dead just as Rurik had him, one of their wing was still dead, and would remain so.

Gir flinched as Rurik turned a hard, flinty look back on him. "When you stayed behind to buy me cover during the blockade," he finished lamely, but it left that gaping conversational hole, the person whose plan the whole thing had been. The person Rurik had left in a crippled fighter to die . . . "If they were such a big threat, not just to the Outer Rim, but to the Core, we would have encountered them by now."

"Ask any crewman on this ship," Rurik said, though really, how many would they have a chance to see? Interrogators asked questions, they didn't answer them. "We've met them. That's how I got promoted. When you're the last captain-rank standing after one of those black ships takes out the primary bridge–" He stopped himself. "They're coming, Giriad. Your Republic can't even slow down an Imperial fleet less than half the size it was without falling apart and fighting amongst themselves. What are they going to do against something really nasty?"

"I . . . I don't know. Fi and I still argue about that, but the Emperor's dead. The Empire is–was–dying. It was an academic argument until Thrawn turned up!" Giriad looked torn between righteous anger and confused guilt.

"That's _Grand Admiral_ Thrawn to you, me, and anyone else who wants to keep on this side of a detention-cell door," though it had been so long since Rurik had to remind someone about showing their alien admiral respect, it sounded a bit less than convincing. Then the first part really registered. "Who's Fi?"

Giriad lowered his head, and there was actually a flush of color in his cheeks "Fiolla. My wife."

"Your what?" Rurik knew it was rude, but he couldn't help it. He heard a stifled cough that might have been Zeth choking down a guffaw.

"Yeah, I got married. A medic I met on the Rebel frigate I was taken aboard at Endor." There _was_ a tiny flush of high color to Giriad's pale complexion, but there was more than a bit of defiance in his eyes. "And no, she's _not_ the reason I defec–joined the Alliance. Well, she's not the whole reason."

Rurik didn't know what to say. The feeling that was creeping up slowly from the depths of his gut was hot, dark, and ugly, and he knew it was envy. _Giriad, alive and a Rebel and_ married _, and me with rank I never wanted, women I can't stand for more than a few hours' relief, and Thelea . . . Thelea . . ._ He stopped himself. That line of thinking started him down a dangerous path he'd almost learned to avoid, one that ended with him alone in his quarters with whatever alcohol he could come by, angry at the Rebels, himself, and most of all and most dangerously at the person who could have spared Thelea all her confusion and lack of identity, and even found a way to spare her life, if he'd only wanted to.

Rurik's own Supreme Commander, Grand Admiral Thrawn.

He was mercifully distracted by the unmuffled snort from Zeth. "You fell for your nursemaid. Seriously? That's the biggest cliche in the book."

And circumstances notwithstanding, he couldn't let that one pass. "Colonel Orono, would you care for me to tell Specialist Muro your feelings about relationships between patients and medics, not to mention your having referred to even a Rebel medic as a nursemaid?" Rurik managed to keep a straight face, but only just.

"With all due respect, Captain, you're a cold, cruel master." Zeth at least didn't seem offended by it.

"Duly noted, and true, but in this case I am only siding with your girlfriend as she's one with a better chance of being near me with a laser scalpel and she knows how to use it." He did genuinely like Jasha Muro, as much as he allowed himself to like anyone these days, and enjoyed sometimes reminding Zeth all the ways he could make the wing commander's life miserable if she ever told her Captain she'd been misused.

Giriad was reaching in his flight suit breast pocket and the troopers snapped their blaster rifles up even as Rurik waved them back. Gir produced a small holoflat, and looked at it for a moment before holding it out to Rurik. "See? That's Fi and our girls."

As Rurik took it, the gunner kneeling beside Giriad groaned. "You keep a holoflat of your wife and kids in your suit? Are you _trying_ to jinx us to death?"

Giriad ignored him other than a side-eyed glare, and Rurik studied the image. Gir's wife was pretty enough, he supposed–dark blonde hair, light brown eyes, freckles, all of which made her look even younger than he hoped she really was. There was a toddler sitting next to her (going by the background, the image was recorded on one of Coruscant's innumerable public skywalks somewhere near the government center) and she was holding another, barely-older-than-baby-sized child in her arms. Both, as far as Rurik could tell, were girls, and both had the same blonde hair as their parents, with Giriad's eyes and the older girl, at least, had her mother's snub nose and freckles.

A quiet snort told him Zeth was looking over his shoulder. "Wow. The Rebels got right on that post-war baby thing after Endor, eh?" There was just the slightest bitter edge to his voice, and that kept Rurik quiet. Very few Imperials had the time or resources to even think about a family, as on the run as they'd been. Even rare couples serving together like Zeth and Jasha couldn't even consider it, given they never knew where 'home' was going to be. No point risking leaving a spouse and children on a planet when next week that system might belong to an entirely different government. Worse were those who _had_ family, far Coreward on Rebel-occupied worlds, or at least as far as they knew they had family. Any sort of communication was spotty at best, grounds for suspicion at worst, and traveling into Imperial space was no guarantee of finding each other for those living under the Rebels. Even long after writing the possibility off for himself, Rurik could sympathize with the envy.

"Our older girl is Binda. She's named after Fi's younger sister, she was killed during a protest–well, we named Binda after her. The baby is . . . ." Suddenly Giriad blanched, and looked away. "Well . . . we call her Lea for short. I mean, we didn't know if she would have . . . ."

"She who?" It sounded a bit like how some people pronounced the Rebel Princess's name, but there were probably dozens of children named after her and no one seemed to mind.

Giriad looked up at him again and grimaced, but said, "It's only–with some races, it's an honor to name children after the dead, but some consider it an insult or bad luck or something, and I've never met anyone else from Thelea's people to ask them. It's not like I ever spoke to Admiral Thrawn. I mean, I still don't even know who her people _are_ , so we named her Thelea, but we call her . . . ." He trailed off. "I hope she'd approve."

Rurik felt light-headed, unreal. _I can't. I can't even deal with this now. I just . . . ._ Numbly, he handed the holo back to Giriad, who was staring at him with the first real signs of fear. Rurik turned away. "Major, take Lieutenant Quoris and his friend here to the detention level. We don't have the space to spare so put them together, after they're searched for weapons. Get a restraining bolt on that astromech, too, we don't need it shooting up the hangar. We'll deal with interrogation later when I've had time to think about this."

"Shall I let him keep the holo, sir?" From the snide edge to his voice, the major was hoping the answer was no.

Rurik saw the alarmed look, quickly hidden, that flashed across Giriad's face and some ghost of the person he used to be felt a surge of annoyance at the other officer's inefficient, unnecessary sadism. "Yes, Major, as it's hardly likely to be a weapon in disguise, unless you think stormtroopers and detention guards have a particular weakness for images of charming toddlers."

"Rurik, I . . . thank you." Giriad tried to take a step forward, but the trooper behind him jabbed with the blaster and this time Rurik didn't stop him.

" _Captain_ ," and never in his life could Rurik remember saying it so sharply. "And don't be too grateful." Some of that hostile ugliness clawed its way up, though he wasn't sure if Giriad was really the target. "I'm only thinking that if you _do_ have to plead your case to the Grand Admiral, telling him that you named _your_ daughter after _his_ might go a little way towards helping your case. Then again . . . maybe not."

He saw the brief confusion, then the horrified realization dawning in Giriad's eyes. "Thelea was–the Grand Admiral's her _father?_ "

"Was," said Rurik, though a guilty voice pointed out in the back of his mind that just as he still admitted to loving her in the present tense, it was entirely possible Thrawn did not consider being a parent any differently. "Either way, she's still dead. So it's not like it matters one way or the other." He turned sharply on his heel with only a brief nod to the Major and to a stunned-looking Zeth Orono, and managed to hold the steely, emotionless captain's facade in place until the turbolift doors closed on him, and he could bury his face in his hands until the urge to sob finally subsided. For himself, for Thelea, for what Gir had become, had gained, he wasn't sure, but until he knew he could push it all back down behind the mask of ice again, he kept his face covered.

The A-wing fighter dropped out of hyperspace close enough to Yag'Duhl to set off the sensors on both the station orbiting the planet and the two Rebel dreadnaughts hanging in space near its space station, Yag-Prime. The rest of the traffic appeared, for the most part, to be civilian or governmental trade craft, large haulers and small independent ships, some of the larger with their own fighter escorts.

Thelea knew that was a lie.

She shifted uneasily in the heavy Rebel-style helmet, looser than a TIE pilot's, but the cockpit was clear enough anyone doing a close flyby would have seen either the Imperial model or the glow of her eyes and that would be a disaster for a variety of reasons. She knew the sensors were already on her, the overt and covert military ships tagging her, and she hoped to the Force the false transponder identity, taken from one of the many Rebel fighter's the fleet had captured recently, was solid on close inspection. The _Chimaera'_ s tech teams had done a convincing job creating realistic but utterly cosmetic battle damage, just as they had done a hyper-efficient job loading her down with more launchable concussion missiles than the little fighter had previously been able to manage. She was going to need every one of them.

A gentle touch brushed her mind, and she reached back. _In-system, Master._

She had a brief impression of the bridge of the _Chimaera_ , Master Aleishia in her plain dark robes standing near Thrawn's command chair while Pellaeon looked on. There was less of the disapproval now in the Captain's expression, and she no longer felt the distrust, residual from C'baoth, of having a Jedi Master involved. Of course, none of the three Force-sensitives involved in this operation were notably mad, and their purpose here was not to take over the minds of their fellow crew and force efficiency on them. And, of course, Aleishia had said she was going to convince the Captain she was no threat. How she'd accomplished that, Thelea was far happier not knowing. She didn't _think_ her Master would have been able or inclined to lure the admittedly-charming Captain to her bed, but then again . . . .

_Now is not the time for wool-gathering, Apprentice._

_True._ She looked down at her targeting computer, and reached out her mind towards the third party, who was with the reason this entire scheme of Bel Iblis's would fail. The crewman had been a conscript, one of many on _Chimaera'_ s bridge, but unusual in one way that had drawn Aleishia to him, probably identifying him before she'd presented Thrawn with her plan and he'd permitted her to walk openly along the bridge and chose someone who fit. He had been one of the tractor-beam operators but had sufficient basic knowledge of all systems to be suitable. With a crash course to awaken his latent Force abilities and most importantly of all, to let him act as a receiver for images and orders, the former mostly relayed by Thelea as she was doing now with her targeting data, and the latter predominantly from Aleishia, standing beside the Grand Admiral, he was the key to this plan.

Absent the ysalamiri, no cloaking shield yet invented could block a Jedi.

He was nervous, and she tried once again to make her sense in the Force reassuring, rather than frustrated. She had never actively tried to reach a human mind other than Aleishia's before (once again she smashed down a memory of a mine field and an Interceptor with a failed targeting system and Rurik's panic choking her like bile) and she hadn't realized how accustomed her long years of exile had made her Master to alien minds, Chiss among them. The human inability to compartmentalize effectively, to put fear in one box and anger in another and worries about whether the laundry had sent back the proper uniform shirts in yet another, let alone keep it off their over-expressive faces, was maddening enough just speaking. Now she had to remember to keep her sending slow and clear, focusing only on the targeting data, letting him focus as well and keeping her own concerns walled far away. His nervousness kept bleeding through to her. But then, he was a conscript, and young, and while he was slowly overcoming any fear he might have of Imperial service, that had been when he was an average crewman, doing an average job.

Not the lynchpin of a plan that, if it succeeded, would bring the end of the Rebellion once and for all.

Her comm system chirped, and she pushed the connection with her master and the young Force-sensitive aside in her mind and readied herself.

"Unidentified A-wing, this is Yag-Prime Control." The accent was more Corellia-Rim than Core and she tried not to think of Rurik. "We are unable to read your transponder clearly. Please identify."

Thelea tapped a control, and the pre-written message transmitted: _Ident Scythe Three. Raid on supply run compromised. Attacked by Impstar and Victory-class. Transponder and comm damaged, receive-only._ The real pilot three of Scythe Squadron was safely tucked aboard INS _Resolute_ in a detention cell, their A-wing being prepped for re-use by the Fleet. Thelea's own was older, but with some cosmetic changes and the tinkered transponder, it would pass long enough for her purposes. She wouldn't have felt quite as comfortable in anything but her own fighter now, adapted as the computer was to her personal tastes and quirks.

"Acknowledged, Scythe Three," the controller said. "You are cleared for docking in Bay Two. Do you require tractor assistance?"

She reached for the keypad. _Negative. Repulsors are functional. Shield controls damaged, levels fluctuating._ The shields were perfectly fine, of course. She was going to need them very shortly.

"Copy that, Scythe Three. We'll have a tech team on standby and a medic. Stand by for the magnetic field."

_Too bad for those techs and medics, then,_ Thelea thought. She toggled the weapons control to the concussion missiles. Lining up along the approach vector they set her, she confirmed what her targeting was telling her–the majority of Yag-Prime's fighters were in the hangars, not on patrol. They were not expecting Bel Iblis's bait to be taken today.

"Scythe Three, slow to one-quarter," and she thought she caught a taste of suspicion in the controller's thoughts. "Are you aware your missile launchers are hot?"

_Internal controls show weapons inactive,_ she sent, even as she reached for Aleishia's mind, showing her and the Force-sensitive crewman in his hidden post nearby the fighter positions in the hangar and the count of how many were currently dead in her sights. _Do we have the word?_ She sensed the crewman's nervous anticipation, too, the trembling of a young predator about to pounce.

She and her Master were clearly rubbing off.

In her Master's mind, she 'saw' _Chimaera'_ s bridge again. Aleishia was speaking, pointed to the sensor readouts and the tactical displays as Thrawn looked on. He studied the readout for what seemed like forever, and then gave a small nod. In the same instant Thelea heard, _The word is given._

Her finger squeezed the trigger and two of the concussion missiles blasted into the hangar, its magnetic field lowered to admit the fighter. She fired again before the debris cleared, but she saw the clouds of venting gasses and flames even as she started an evasive maneuver and fired at the station directly. This close, their defensive batteries couldn't turn in on a tight enough angle to hit her, and she kicked her speed up to full, switching back to quad lasers and firing at anything that happened to be in front of her. The second hangar got two more of the concussion missiles, though the magnetic field was up again and the damage was mostly to the outside. Another missile went into the command tower, the damage mitigated but not completely prevented by the shielding. The comm system certainly took a hit because the screaming voice that had been buzzing in her comm suddenly vanished in a burst of static.

_Not as if I was going to answer them anyway._ Thelea reset the transponder, and Sycthe Three vanished. In its place was Talon One, broadcasting an Imperial transponder code. That was important, as she saw Rebel fighters moving out of the crowded space lanes, more than she'd really have expected had she not known this was bait dangling to tempt the Grand Admiral. Still, the squadrons aboard the station were now damaged or trapped, the station control cut off . . . her computer locked on one of the escort frigates and she launched two more of the missiles. They wouldn't destroy it or even seriously harm it, but the blast near its launch bays once again meant that many more enemy fighters wouldn't launch.

The other reason she needed her identity clear suddenly sent the fighters scrambling after a bigger problem than just one renegade A-wing, and ships in the traffic pattern beginning slow, awkward turns in clumsy attempts to evade as three squadrons' worth of TIEs came racing from the now-decloaked Interdictor Cruiser that had appeared on everyone scanners seemingly from nowhere. The TIEs and their Lancer-class carrier had been tucked neatly in the cloaking shadow of the Interdictor, and Thelea felt the flare of satisfaction from the crewman linked to her and Aleishia (tinged with slight confusion, as if he weren't sure why a conscript was quite so pleased with his masters' success.) The cruiser had moved based on the input from Thelea and Thrawn's orders relayed through Aleishia, and while the Lancer's fighters sent the Rebels scrambling, the grav-well generators were powering up. Given how the Rebels were trying desperately to reorganize their defenses, they knew that the ship was not there to stop them from escaping.

Her targeting computer chirped a warning and Thelea saw the X-wing closing fast on her. She dove into an evasive spiral, which meant only her sensors told her when the Star Destroyers, the _Chimaera_ in the vanguard, appeared out of hyperspace in perfect formation, pulled by the Interdictor's gravity well to exactly the location the Grand Admiral wanted. The jamming meant she couldn't eavesdrop on the Rebels any more, but she could only imagine that somewhere on one of those Dreadnaughts General Bel Iblis was wondering, desperately, how he had set a trap only to have Grand Admiral Thrawn already waiting for him.

Then the two Mon Cal cruisers dropped out of hyperspace, the trap belatedly sprung, and the battle began in earnest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fair warning, the first of those character deaths the warning up there is for is coming up in the next chapter ("major" depends on your personal feeling about what that means, but if you're a Zahn fan, it probably counts.) And unlike Giriad and Thelea last time, dead means dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There are quite a few thank-yous for this chapter. First, some might have guessed from Chapter Two, but now that I have permission, the Force-sensitive crewman who has been plucked from obscurity is this AU's version of Calim Tam from ladyofdarkstar's amazing fic "Perspective" (and he does reach out for some Force-sensitive friends Aleishia notes she might want to find later.) If you have not read "Perspective", "Family Ties", "Careful What You Wish For" or any of ladyofdarkstar's other wonderful fics, you are missing out. Second, to my loyal correspondent scoobyice8, who keeps giving me far too many good ideas for fics I need to write and keeps reviewing, which is like crack to a writer. (Hint hint, readers.) And finally, this chapter literally could not have been written without Grand Admiral Sean's infinite help and patience and willingness to spend a big chunk of Origins helping me hash this out. The fic is much better for it. Check out his fic at Club Jade dot net's fan fiction page including "How Zahn Could Fix This Mess Version 1" and "Champions of the Force Revisted" (you think *I* am mean to Daala...) Any tactical errors or confusion are entirely mine and Sean could probably explain it better.

Aleishia stood quietly behind Mitth'raw'nuruodo's command chair, half her attention on the quiet, tense activity of the _Chimaera'_ s bridge, half reaching out to the two other minds she was still in communion with. With the battle openly joined, they were free to communicate via normal channels but she felt obliged, responsible, to listen for both their minds. Aboard the Interdictor, the young crewman, Tam, was a glowing mix of nervousness and relief that his major role in the battle was over for the moment and that same startled sense every time she or Thelea touched his mind. That one would have gone to the Temple in the old days, as bright as his untapped potential was. As for her current apprentice . . . .

She smiled, in spite of herself, glancing down at Thrawn. To the humans around them, he no doubt looked the perfect commander, carved of ice, but in the Force she could feel the emotions behind the mask. Thrawn reveled in this. This was his element, his reason for being, and he lived for the moment a plan came to action and now was at the mercy of the enemy. The moment when the unpredictable forced him to rethink while the battle was raging around him was when he came closest to anything she might call joy. At least, the closest he ever came now. No Chiss warrior worthy of the name would ever have let more than the faintest hint of such delight show, but if you could see behind the faint, barely-perceptible smile . . . .

Thelea was perhaps not worthy of the name. Not that she wanted it. There was no sense that she tried, in the cockpit of her fighter, to conceal her euphoria, and even her voice on the comm did not have the proper, restrained note of a Chiss warrior as she ordered her wingmen after targets. Aleishia's eyes found the only A-wing picked out in green rather than red on the tactical display and she followed its dance through the chaos of battle. She was as much in her element as her father was, her sense flowing in the Force in a singing harmony even more noticeable because she was aware of it, feeding on it, one with her fighter and her wingmen in their TIEs and even her targets. Unlike her father she took no pride in hiding her emotions, unlike Tam she was not at all awed by the importance of the moment. She simply _lived_ in it and in the Force and let anyone who cared to look see.

On the display, the blip that was the Imperial A-wing spun through a cloud of debris, forcing the two X-wings pursuing it to break around the expanding ball of gas and particulates that had once been an assault shuttle. Half via the display, half via their connection in the Force, Aleishia saw the wedge-shaped fighter pivot and kill its engines momently, letting momentum carry her in reverse, gunports now straight at her pursuers. One X-wing vanished in bright flare (on the display and in the Force) and the other veered off as Thelea threw her engines back to full, pursuer instead of pursed.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo was watching her. Not pointedly, as if she'd missed a question, but that side-eyed look that asked without forcing him to speak aloud. "She thrives," Aleishia said softly, and not in Basic. "A warrior's heart."

He gave a slight upward twitch of his lips that might have been a smile, and only murmured in kind, "Her mother's child." His expression might remain impassive, but he could not conceal the brief flare of pride and what a human might even have considered love that a Jedi could feel behind the words.

"Two more star cruisers inbound, Admiral," Pellaeon said from his tactical display. "If this is indeed a trap by bel Iblis, he's bringing his forces into play quite slowly."

"He did not, I think, anticipate the trap being sprung today," Thrawn said calmly, as if his captain editorializing in the midst of a fight were perfectly normal. Aleishia kept her face impassive but privately, too privately for Thelea to overhear, she thought, _If even the youngest cadet spoke so often out of turn . . . do they know how like children you treat them?_

"So much the better for us, then, sir," Pellaeon said. A good man, she thought, a conventional man, but a good one. Not yet Thrawn's equal, too honest for that and too expecting of honorable behavior from allies and opponents alike. He might never become the tactical genius Thrawn was (such brilliance was born, not made) but in time, he would make a true leader in his own right.

So much a creature of the old Republic, whether he knew it or not. She could sympathize.

"Perhaps," Thrawn said absently, and Aleishia saw how his eyes tracked the various ships on the command display, then raised his voice so the communications officer could hear. "Tell _Relentless_ to close in tighter on Yag-Prime. They appear to have repaired at least one of their launch bay control stations."

Aleishia felt Pellaeon's mental flinch. She could hardly blame him–having not one but two of Thrawn's hand-picked Destroyers out of action ( _Stormhawk_ still laid up with sensors damaged after Bilbringi, _Death's Head_ in spacedock having its weapons systems repaired after taking heavy damage from the Hapan fleet before they'd been pacified) was unsettling enough. Thrawn was right, of course, as he usually was (damn him), that they could not delay until repairs were complete. _Bellicose_ had been added to the main battle group to replace _Stormhawk_ , but _Death's Head_ 's sudden indisposition had prompted Thrawn to elevate _Relentless_ to their group as well. Aleishia had kept her own council, but Pellaeon's resistance to the inclusion of Captain Dorja had been obvious enough even a non-Jedi could have felt it.

And Dorja's resentment of and dislike for Grand Admiral Thrawn was obvious enough a blind man could have seen it. Still, Aleishia had gotten the impression that for now, he preferred to show Thrawn not choosing the _Relentless_ had been a mistake by out-performing the main-line ships, not by any foolhardy attempts at a coup. This would certainly be the opportunity. When she focused on the minds of the Destroyer's crew, she could feel that urge, driving them all– _Show him. Show him how wrong he was to overlook us._ The ship moved in on the station, green turbolasers lancing into the already-damaged launch bays and she felt the grim satisfaction from her captain. And the disbelief and fear, so abruptly silenced, from more of Yag-Prime's crew.

_Why haven't you given up?_ she thought wistfully. _So much waste, and we need every one._

"The _Judicator_ reports three of the container ships are trying to maneuver for a clear hyperspace jump," Pellaeon said from his tactical board. "Do you want them stopped, or are we letting them go?"

"Tell Captain Brandei to drive them back. _Constrainer_ is to reposition to close the escape route." Thrawn frowned, leaning forward in his chair to study the readout more closely, adjusting the display so he could get a closer look at the three containers clumsily maneuvering for a clear hyperspace vector. "Sensors, do a tight scan on this target," and he highlighted one of the bulk ships. "Identify any anomalies. Construction, weaponry, recent signs of repairs." He looked at Pellaeon. "Do these ships seem familiar to you, Captain?"

Pellaeon obediently looked, conveniently turning away so Aleishia felt safe in indulging in a roll of her eyes. Mitth'raw'nuruodo was constitutionally incapable of not turning every event into an opportunity to teach, no matter how otherwise-occupied he might be with small matters such as winning battles. Or surviving. Still, curiosity compelled her to look, too, but they appeared to be nothing unusual for a trade junction like Yag'Dhul.

Pellaeon seemed to concur. "Converted military ships, Admiral, as the Rebels have been using recently. Just like at Sluis Van."

"Yes," Thrawn said, and Aleishia knew that tone. From the flare of emotion Pellaeon felt and quicly kept suppressed he knew it too. The Grand Admiral had seen something and he was not pleased. " _Exactly_ like at Sluis Van, Captain. Down to the ships. Look at the damage all three have sustained recently in the hull near the bridge access areas." He sat back, his expression darkening. "There should not be ships damaged by the mole miners ready to return to active service yet. Not this many, at least."

"We have put a great deal of pressure on their remaining fleet," Pellaeon offered. "They may simply have no other options."

"Perhaps." Which meant probably no. "Master Aleishia, what can you sense about the crews on those ships?"

Years of practice kept her face impassive, not showing the pure irritation at being treated like one of his soldiers. She _had_ , after all, volunteered for this. Closing her eyes, she reached out for the converted cargo-warship, seeking the minds of its crew.

Nothing.

Aleishia's eyes snapped open, and she moved towards the viewport, staring harder at the forms of the ships barely visible in the distance, stretching out with the Force. Not the _nothing_ of lack of any life, but a nothing as if the Force itself was absent. Not every ship; the warships that had arrived in-system and the Dreadnaughts patrolling near the station felt normal, but at least half the 'cargo' vessels had blank spots, blank spots that been a distressingly familiar feature of Imperial vessels recently. "Damn them," she muttered, and she saw the startled look on Pellaeon's face. Not very Jedi-like, she supposed.

"What?" Thrawn didn't bother being shocked, but then again the last time she's truly shocked him was more than three decades ago, simply by existing when and where she should not have.

"Ysalamiri," she said, trying to keep the disgust out of her voice. "He's realized you've still got Force-users, that or he doesn't know for sure, and the cargo carriers have ysalamiri aboard."

Thrawn's expression hardened–not anger, she'd never had the misfortune of seeing him angry and from Lisetha's description that was a good thing, but a dark, walled look. "Karrde. All over the ships or only the bridge?"

"It's not like I can sense where they are," she said, knowing her tone was waspish and that it was scandalizing poor Pellaeon, but not caring. "But . . . scattered throughout the ships, I think." _Apprentice?_

_I feel it._ She had the sense of Thelea not wanting to get too close. _This doesn't feel like they're trying to protect vital sites on the ship. No pattern. Master, there's something wrong here._

_Do tell._ She could do droll surprise as well as Thelea's father. "The bridges are all blocked, but the rest are random, haphazard . . . ." She paused again, a suspicion curdling to grim certainty. "I think there are far fewer crew and cargo than there should be on ships of their size."

"As I suspected." Thrawn's tone was equally grim. "All ships, maintain distance from the converted warships, target to disable with long-range weapons only."

"You think this is the trap?" Aleishia knew he found idle conversation, rather than genuine questions, irritating. Irritating him was one of the few pleasures she had left at her age.

The situation had to be serious when Thrawn did not even touch the bait. "I know it's a trap. The question is what kind?" He looked harder at the readout. "Confirm _Bellicose_ understood that order."

"She's maneuvering, sir," the comm officer reported. "There's a heavy fire zone in that sector and _Bellicose'_ s Dreadnaught escort is encountering difficulties."

"Let the Dreadnaughts worry about themselves," Thrawn said, uncharacteristically brusque. "Tell her Captain–"

He did not have time to finish the thought. One of the Rebel ships, which had seemed to be trying, sluggishly, to maneuver itself toward an escape vector and in the general direction of the _Bellicose_ , abruptly exploded in a shower of debris, one that seemed oddly bereft of heat blooms and was spreading in a disturbingly-orderly fashion. Even without any obvious explosions, a TIE that had strayed close lost its port-side solar panel and spiraled off to a fiery death. And then the larger chunks of detritus blasted into smaller pieces, moving much faster and in a wider variety of trajectories than randomness would allow. The little pieces bloomed like distress rockets, only instead of glittering sparks, they exploded into thousands of cluster bombs. The miniature concussion missiles detonated the instant they contacted a target, and a wave struck _Bellicose_ midships, enough of them to overwhelm the deflector shields. Debris and fire blasted out from her hull, and she began to rotate slowly, an attempt to escape or the beginnings of keeling over as her helm failed wasn't immediately apparent.

"All ships, target the freighters, long-range weapons only!" Thrawn did not sound alarmed, but the command was sharp and almost harsh. "Fighters are to disengage and regroup at Yag-Prime, reporting to Talon One." He didn't even glance Aleishia's way, but she reached out anyway as the comm officer relayed the orders. Thelea was already complying and she had whatever anxiety the sudden danger might have prompted firmly under control.

"Admiral, sensor scan shows the debris contains trac-sensitive particles," reported an officer from the crew pit, a voice Aleishia didn't recognize but which sounded steadier and calmer than she might have anticipated. "Our ships are having difficulty scanning for the expansion mines."

Thrawn's expression hardened. "Treat all readings of the debris cloud as potentially dangerous and maintain distance. Helm, plot a course away from the freighters with the damage repair from Sluis Vn."

Pellaeon, meanwhile, was looking over Thrawn's shoulder at the tactical readout, his expression grim. "Are we withdrawing, Admiral?"

"We are not." Thrawn was clearly thinking, recalculating, even as one of their Dreadnaughts ran into a cluster of the concussion-missile fire ship's detonation and took a much harder hit than the larger Destroyer, its readout flickering red with a warning of a hull breach. A Carrack-class frigate was moving to assist, but one of the Mon Cal cruisers, until now content to engage _Relentless_ and the _Constrainer_ , opened fire, leaving her sister ship to engage the Destroyer and Interdictor. "Lieutenant Mithel?"

There was a pause, and then a voice from the crew pit, just a bit on edge but more from adrenaline than fear: "Yes, Admiral?"

"I believe you were working on refining the technique you attempted for countering a covert shroud gambit by shifting the tractor beam to shear-plane mode?"

Mithel sounded only the slightest bit confused. "Yes, sir."

"Can the technique you attempted be used to relocate the cluster traps and sweep them out of the range of the Destroyers?" On the tactical display two more of the freighters shattered, sending their payloads spinning out in a deadly cloud.

There was a slight pause, and then, in a slightly more confident tone, Mithel said, "Yes, sir, I think I can."

"Cluster the mines and use the tractor beams to push them instead of pull," Thrawn ordered. Aleishia could practically see his mind working as he studied the tactical displays. "Where possible, direct their momentum back towards the Rebel ships."

"There's another way, too," Aleishia said, reaching out as she spoke to Thelea and Tam. "I don't think I can move them too precisely, nor the boy, but we _can_ move them, and if it's precision you want, Thelea will manage that."

"Into their ships if she can." There was no change in his expression, no indication he found anything unusual or distasteful about his daughter's abilities. Such a change the years could bring. "Do so. Captain, _Chimaera_ and _Judicator_ will close with the _Relentless._ They won't bring the fire ships to bear if we're within range of the cruisers and the station."

"Yes, Admiral." Pellaeon sounded tense again, but Aleishia felt the steadiness in his manner, the confidence that had been mildly shaken, but not shattered.

Then she shifted her focus outward. Calim Tam was nervous, and she caught an odd echo again, as if he were looking for some other minds for comfort and somehow finding them. Force-users, she thought, with a sense one was not far off and another was closer still. More future students, for her, for Thelea, and then she made herself concentrate on the now. Thelea had noticed her distraction and didn't need to be distracted herself. Expanding her reach to them both, Aleishia showed them the Admiral's wishes even as distantly she was aware of the Star Destroyers' tractor beams sweeping to life, seeking out the spreading mines and clustering them, then forcing them away from the ships.

Tam's abilities were not unlike her own–he could seek out the mines and move them, but too many at once and the precision was lost. Instead, to Aleishia's surprise, he quickly abandoned that plan and began instead shifting the mines he could grasp into the range of the tractor beams. Initiative and self-analysis of his skills . . . once again, in the most shielded part of her mind, Aleishia cursed Palpatine and Vader and the intransigent Council that had made destroying the Jedi so easy. This boy _should_ have gone to the Temple, should have been trained and refined and taught to be a true Jedi. Someday, someday soon if only they won here, she would have to start trying to make that right.

Thelea . . . oh, if Lisetha had only possessed half the telekinetic skill her daughter did. Thelea might not be able to mind-trick a particularly slow-witted nerf into believing it was a slow-witted nerf, but when it came to physical manipulation, she could thread a needle or move a mountain with equal aplomb. Lisetha had possessed brute telekinetic strength, but Thelea coupled that with an ability to sort out a truly staggering number of targets that she would proceed to manipulate like precision instruments. A cluster of mines released from one of the derelict freighters spiraled into a tight grouping and accelerated straight at the Mon Cal cruiser taking on the _Relentless_ , spreading apart only at the last minute somehow without losing speed. They shattered against the enemy warship's hull, far enough apart to do widespread damage, close enough and fast enough to hit harder than they should have. The Rebel ship's port shields buckled, and a barrage from the _Judicator_ brought them down farther.

There was a flare of satisfaction from Thelea, and for the first time since they'd arrived in system her voice cracked over the comm so that Thrawn and Pellaeon could hear: "That's _Mon Remonda_ down to 34% shields," and she wasn't even bothering to hide the satisfaction in her voice. Any Endor veteran would revel in damaging one of Ackbar's ships, that one second only to _Home One._

"Noted," Thrawn replied, and while Aleishia doubted the humans noticed she'd been among the Chiss long enough to hear the approval and the faintest tinge of pride in his voice. "Well done. _Judicator_ will finish their shields. Your fighters will withdraw and focus on Yag-Prime."

"Yes, sir," and there might have been just the slightest trace of amusement in return. "Gamma flight, Delta flight, rendezvous at point three–"

There was a burst of static on the comm and Aleishia felt a clench of fear at the same moment she saw Thrawn's fingers tighten on the armrests of his command chair until she could see pale bone through the skin. _The only reason I forgive you, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, for sending her away, is now I know how right you were that making her parentage common knowledge would have made her into a hostage everywhere she went. What_ wouldn't _you concede to protect your Lisetha's child?_ Even as she thought it, she felt a surge of anger from Thelea, quickly turned to annoyance and fed to more useful impulses than rage, and she let out a sharp sigh of relief. "She's alive."

As she spoke, Thelea reached for her mind again. _That one was ion clusters, to go with the concussion missiles and proton torpedo packets. Bel Iblis has a very nasty imagination. My shields took the worst of it but my comm's fried. Five minutes to repair._

Aleishia relayed that aloud to Thrawn, and exchanged a knowing look with Pellaeon when the Admiral visibly relaxed his death grip. "She does have point," she added. "There's something very wrong about this trap. It's vicious. Personal." Something in the Force was niggling at her, a tiny, jabbing warning that refused to be ignored, but with equal stubbornness refused to be specific about the nature of the danger.

"General bel Iblis blames Palpatine's Empire, in fairness correctly, for the destruction of his family," Thrawn said, with a glacial kind of pedanticness. "All his battles have been personal. What is unusual is the Rebellion's leadership indulging him in it. This is certainly not how Ackbar would have conducted the fight and I am somewhat surprised, given their history, that Mon Mothma is permitting such an unusual strategy. It does give them a slightly better chance of success, but if they fail, they will have destroyed enough of their own ships they can't hope to continue the fight."

"Desperate times, Admiral?" Pellaeon had a positive gift for making statements into questions. "You've repeatedly shown they can't defeat you with their conventional tactics. They may feel they have no choice but to revert to their previous terrorist tactics, without the legitimate pretense."

"Perhaps," Thrawn said, staring in the direction of the tactical display but, Aleishia could tell, not really seeing it. "Concentrating our forces and hoping to increase the number of disabled Star Destroyers, to buy them time?"

The crackling unease in the Force began to resolve itself into a certainty. "No," Aleishia said softly, staring out the viewports at the silent flashes and sparks that were the battle raging. "No, not the Destroyers . . . ." The warning flared, a sudden sense that something was coming. "Thrawn–"

He looked up sharply and she couldn't blame him for the undisguised surprise. She couldn't recall the last time she had addressed him directly by core name. If she'd ever done it. "What is it?"

"The real trap." She stared into the darkness beyond the battle. "It's not the ships, or the battle station, or winning a victory, that's not what he wants. It's–"

There was a flicker of pseudomotion and suddenly the _Chimaera'_ s proximity alerts were shrieking. She heard the gasps, quickly stifled, from the crew and felt the sudden surge in tension and anxiety, even from Pellaeon and in a brief, unguarded instant, even shock from Thrawn. Somewhere nearby Thelea's surge of alarm was tempered by a strange sort of recognition, pain, as if seeing a ghost, even as she was rationally trying to control the response, knowing that she was not seeing the ship memory and trauma told her she was.

It was not the _Executor_. But it _was_ a Super Star Destroyer.

Even Thrawn was on his feet, staring hard out the viewports, before turning to the tactical display. "The _Lusankya,_ " he breathed, and for once there was some emotion there. Not fear, but Aleishia wouldn't have wanted to swear whether it was shock or a strange sort of envy. One thing their fleet did _not_ have was any ship on that scale, and it had been a moderate disappointment that the Maw had not yielded anything comparable, even before its mad mistress had destroyed what weapons there were. "Ysanne Isard's personal playground. I knew the Rebels had recovered her, but all intelligence indicated she was anything but spaceworthy."

Pellaeon looked grim, and his sense in the Force was teetering perilously close to defeatist. "It must have been a rush job. She's even still patched and they haven't bothered with the paint."

"Yet she has full running lights, shields, and clearly her hyperdrive is functioning." The ship was maneuvering, too, slowly but with a Super Star Destroyer there were rarely other speeds that could be used in close quarters. She'd jumped in close to the remains of the first fire ships, the Rebel Dreadnaughts clearly moving to make room. Even as they watched, the port-side aft batteries opened up and a Carrack-class cruiser shattered. Aleishia flinched again, even as she saw Thrawn's eyes narrow. "Non-standard firing pattern, even for the Rebels. The result of a mixed crew?" And he glanced at her.

She could only shake her head. "Same as the fire ships, only with more of a pattern. They must have made a run to Myrkr if they have this many ysalamiri."

"Clearly bel Ilblis isn't taking any chances." Thrawn's eyes narrowed as he studied the readout. "We do have the advantage in knowing her crew cannot have trained extensively and that, despite their attempt to look otherwise, they cannot have repaired all of her systems completely. The construction rigs are still intact in some places. I suspect, given the forward position of that bracing," and he tapped the display with a slender blue finger, indicating what looked like a construction gantry still locked into place near the tapering point of the bow, "some of her tractors and turbolasers are non-functional."

"They can't assume we'll simply be cowed by the size," Pellaeon said. "And she can't just be a larger carrier."

"Yes," Thrawn said thoughtfully, "especially given her fighter bays are designed for TIEs." His lips were pressed thin, and while his expression was otherwise serene Aleishia could feel an abnormal tension. Thrawn confronted with the completely unexpected was a rare occurrence. She could feel him fighting the need for time to consider this new, unfavorable development. "And the converted freighters are redeploying." As he spoke, more bolts from _Chimaera's_ forward turbolasers lanced out as one of the Rebels' converted frigates began drifting her way, two B-wings running interference.

Pellaeon was studying the tracking for their own ships, and his brow was increasingly furrowed. "Admiral, _Bellicose_ is still very close to the _Lusankya_ ," he said. "Her shields are back up to fifty percent, but she's within range of their active turbolasers."

"Order her to withdraw," Thrawn snapped, sounding more irritated than he usually allowed. "Signal _Admonitor_ to stand by for the signal to jump. The _Constrainer_ is to reposition–"

On the screen and through the viewports, there was a brilliant flash.

It took Aleishia a moment to process what had happened, and to tune out the startled curse from

Pellaeon, the sudden alarm and even fear radiating from the crew, Thelea and Tam's shock radiating through the Force (even as the A-wing was arcing farther away, and the Interdictor starting to come about towards the reserve ships' desired entry vector) and most of all the sudden, solid sense of ice as Thrawn forcibly locked down any visible response, refusing to let his crew see anything but the fearless Grand Admiral who was still in control and certainly never completely surprised by anything. She could feel the effort through the Force, and she was close enough to hear the murmur, either stunned enough or in control enough to be in Cheunh, " _Gods and ancestors . . . ."_

The forward 'construction gantry on the _Lusankya_ 's bow had been blown away on the starboard side by fire from now-visible mass cannons. The bolts they had fired were shorter and brighter than turbolasers and the impact on the _Bellicose_ had been no less different. Her shields and hull, already battered, had offered no resistance to the superlasers. The impact damage looked more like being hit by mass drivers-the _Bellicose_ was nominally intact, but her forward superstructure was shattered by gaping holes, and Aleishia squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to feel the deaths of the crew in that section, the sudden animal panic of those still nearby, and trying to shield Tam at least from sensing the worst of it and being overwhelmed. Thelea had gone as icy as her father, choking down both deep instinctive fear and a sudden surge of rage at the raw destruction.

"How many escape pods?" She realized Thrawn was speaking, and tried to focus. He must have received an answer, because he ordered, still in that perfectly-controlled voice, "Send in Dreadnaught 47 to retrieve survivors. _Relentless, Judicator,_ and _Nemesis_ , concentrate long-range fire on _Lusankya_ 's aft sections, engines and operational batteries only."

"You'd like her taken intact?" Pellaeon sounded far more openly dubious than he had n quite some time.

"If possible," Thrawn said. "But not at risk to our remaining fleet. The Dreadnaughts and Carracks will engage the capitol ships. Reposition the _Constrainer_ in the reserve zone and signal _Admonitor–"_

The blast was so close and so violent Aleishia thought for an instant the _Chimaera_ 's hull had been breached. Her hearing felt fuzzy and she blinked, trying to clear her vision and sort out the cacophony of alarms, startled shouts, called-out alerts from all across the crew pit. Someone was holding her upright, she realized, Pelleaon had an arm around her shoulders and she could hear he was asking if she was all right. She waved him away, fighting away a hysterical giggle at the gentlemanly concern. So very Old-Republican . . . .

"Status report!" Thrawn could somehow make his voice carry without sounding as if he was shouting.

"That was a combination of ion clusters and remote-detonated mini-torpedoes from the Rebel Lancer-class, sir," said a voice from the crew pit, shaky but clear. "Shields at 26%."

"Admiral!" The second crewer sounded desperate to keep the tension from his voice and was managing, barely. "We've lost maneuvering thrusters. The ionization overloaded the system. Engineering estimates eight minutes to restore full control. Sublight engines are offline, navigation is still resetting from overload"

Thrawn had gone very still, and she could practically hear his mind working. "Tell _Admonitor_ to bring in the reserve fleet," he said finally, no hint of alarm or distress in his voice. "Continue assault on _Lusankya'_ s flank, reserves to reinforce the Dreadnaughts against the cruisers."

There was a slight pause. "Comm system is down, Admiral," and this officer made no attempt to hide their anxiety. "We can't reach any other ships until it resets."

Without missing a beat Thrawn looked to Aleishia. "Give Thelea the order. Have her relay it to Parck."

Aleishia reached for her apprentice's mind and tried to hide her own grimace. "She will. She has ninety seconds to comm repair from her own ion damage. She's passing the word to Ensign Tam on the _Constrainer,_ though."

"Very well." His voice betrayed nothing, but he knew ,and so did she, and so did Pellaeon. Every delay was precious time lost. Thrawn was watching the _Lusankya_ again, and Aleishia felt a cold sinking in her gut. The Super Star Destroyer was turning, slowly but purposefully, yawing so its port bow section was more closely angled towards the crippled _Chimaera._ The port bow section directly opposite the starboard side where the massive lasers had fired on the dying _Bellicose_. _Judicator_ and _Relentless_ were pounding on her stern section with lasers and torpedoes, but either her rear batteries were not as functional as the initial assault suggested or she was diverting power, charging something much bigger, more destructive. Something she was bringing to bear on the Imperial flagship.

Thrawn, once again, was very still. Pellaeon looked ashen as the pieces fell into place for him. "Admiral, _Lusankya_ is coming about."

"I see." The calculation was still going on, pieces still being rearranged on his mental game board, but he was now playing defense with an unexpected lack of resources. And there could be only one explanation.

Aleishia willed the certainty to fade, willed the Force to tell her the intuition was wrong, but she knew it wasn't. Stepping close beside Thrawn, she lowered her voice and spoke his language, not hers, knowing it would register no matter how distracted. "Bel Iblis isn't here to destroy the fleet," she said softly.

"No," Thrawn replied in kind, and in his native tongue she could hear far more of the resignation than when he spoke Basic. "General bel Iblis has come to kill me."

Aboard _Home One_ , Garm bel Iblis was not smiling. Some part of him, as with any commander, hated seeing the crippled ships and escape pods. "Make sure the fighters know to avoid the escape pods from that Destroyer," he said.

"Aye, sir." The warbling tone of the Mon Cal captain gave no hint to any emotion. But Teuthal was one of Ackbar's people, and undoubtedly shared the Admiral's distaste for unnecessary bloodshed. At least he hoped so. It was unnerving to be here with so few of his own crew, but the Mon Cal cruisers had more firepower than his Dreadnaughts, and they had a personal score to settle. Agreeing to use _Home One_ and _Mon Remonda_ was a small price to pay for being permitted to stage this assault, even if some aspects went against any true commander's preference for prisoners over casualties.

_Something Thrawn's adopted himself lately_ , a small voice in the back of his mind muttered, but he pushed it aside. Rumors of ships being taken intact did not mean their crews were still alive. And this was the Republic's last chance. If Thrawn turned another New Republic surprise assault into a crushing victory for the Empire, then it was, truly, over. Not the ships. He'd had to fight long and hard against Drayson and the much-subdued Ackbar to get approval for their sacrifice, but the Council, Mon Mothma, had finally seen things his way. The New Republic had ships in reserve and these could, post-victory, be replaced. They would still have the physical resources to mount a defense, but that would be all it would be, defensive maneuvering. Buying time, perhaps, for the governmental seat to evacuate Coruscant, if they thought it was still worth the effort.

Which, he had to admit, they wouldn't. Thrawn was no longer collecting systems only by sheer military force. Already smaller, outer members of the New Republic had withdrawn-not formally, of course, still hedging their bets, but withdrawing delegations, recalling ships, and if rumors could be believed, extending feelers to the Imperial high command. _Asking_ for readmittance to Imperial "protection!" And, if the truly wild rumors could be believed, receiving it with mercy and with limited conditions.

No, if Thrawn won today, despite all their efforts, it wasn't the military blow that would end the dream of a restored Republic. It would be the final, certain conviction that the alien Grand Admiral was truly invincible. Which was nonsense; no commander was unbeatable, and Thrawn had lost minor skirmishes–the failed Sluis Van raid, the destruction of the Star Destroyer _Peremptory_ at the Katana Fleet battle–but the man had a near-supernatural knack for turning every loss into some perverse kind of victory. Bilbringi should have been the end of it. They had eliminated his spy devices, distracted him (unintentionally, true) with Skywalker's clandestine mission to Wayland, planted absolutely every indication Tangrene was their target, Leia Organa Solo had indicated the Noghri claimed they'd had a plan of their own, and yet when Ackbar's fleet arrived, there sat Thrawn's, waiting to pounce like grasscats staking out a well-traveled path to a watering hole, and he had cooly and efficiently reduced their attack fleet to splinters.

If Thrawn won today, it wouldn't just be the outer worlds sneaking off to surrender in the dark. He would have a clear path straight to Coruscant, and there would be many on the Council who would say they should simply invite him to take it.

And the Empire would win.

" _Chimaera_ is showing shields below 30%," Teuthal said.

Bel Iblis allowed himself a tight smile. "Time to charge for the superlaser?"

" _Lusankya_ reports forty-five seconds to recharge, two minutes to targeting _Chimaera_ 's new coordinates." There was no change in the Mon Cal's tone, and yet bel Iblis thought there was just a slight hint of disapproval.

"You have an objection, Captain?"

Teuthal hesitated, and then she nodded. "There are more than thirty thousand crew on the _Chimaera._ I recognize the necessity of neutralizing the Grand Admiral, but I cannot help regretting the loss."

"We've been at war for a very long time, Captain," bel Iblis sighed. "I don't entirely like it either, but if they are the _last_ thirty thousand, then it will be worth it."

"Yes, sir." Teuthal did not sound entirely convinced, but at least she sounded resigned. "Twenty seconds to charge, General."

"Noted. Tell _Lusankya_ to fire when ready." Turning back to the viewport, bel Iblis clasped his hands tightly behind him, and waited for the flash.

Niriz stared from the tactical display to Parck and back again. The _Chimaera,_ drifting as the scattering debris of the fire ship that had struck her with its payload cleared enough the sensor reading was clearer, was at the center of the display, three-quarters of a light year away that might as well have been half a galaxy. The obsidian dagger that was the Super Star Destroyer was reorienting itself, clearly aiming at the crippled Imperial flagship. "You can't be serious. We have our orders."

Parck, standing beside the empty command chair and studying the same tactical display, didn't even look up. " _Hydra, Manticore,_ and _Gorgon_ will jump as the Admiral commands. You will transfer command to the _Basilisk_ and follow." He was putting in command codes, codes that made absolutely no sense to Niriz, because he was not going to _allow_ them to make sense. "Our ships' conventional weapons are not going to stop the _Lusankya_ in time. Therefore, we will follow the Admiral's example and act unconventionally."

" _Admonitor,_ this is Talon One," and Niriz had never been so relieved to hear someone's voice as he was Thelea's. She had to know what her father actually was thinking. " _Constrainer_ will set up an interdiction field that will put you in position. Set course on through coordinates and she'll pull you out. When you jump in target _Lusankya_ and fire at will. Understood?"

Niriz opened his mouth to reply but Parck cut him off. "Stand by, Talon One." He finished whatever he was doing with the controls in the arm of the command chair, and turned to the crew pit. "Helm, I need navigation and jump controls transferred to my station immediately."

"Captain, what is he doing?" Obviously, Thelea had heard that. "Admiral, you have your orders from the Grand Admiral and speaking for myself, Admiral Parck, _Chimaera_ is in serious trouble, we don't have time–"

"Acknowledged, Talon One," Parck said, moving to the command chair and checking the controls. Satisfied, he sat down, pausing a moment as if adjusting to the strange feeling. He avoided the chair, usually. It had always been Admiral Thrawn's, even after he had returned to the Core fleet and transferred his flag to the _Chimaera_. Now he rested his hands on the arms, his fingers resting lightly on the command controls. " _Hydra, Manticore,_ and _Gorgon,_ when you receive confirmation from _Constrainer,_ jump at will."

"With all due respect, Admiral Parck," Niriz said, and the look Parck gave him was so strange, his eyes had such a clarity, that he tried, "Damn it, Voss, what are you going to do?"

"You heard Commander Thelea," Parck said calmly. "We're out of time."

Niriz felt a cold shiver run down his spine. "So why–"

Parck's fingers moved on the controls, and a klaxon Niriz had hoped never to hear in his life sounded. In the crew pit, he saw training warring with confusion as crewers and officers rose, some headed for their evacuation points, others wavering uncertainly. There was no conceivable reason for abandon ship, no damage, no overload–and then Niriz thought of the order to transfer helm and jump controls, the coordinates Parck was plotting, now that he looked a far more precise course than just a leap through the system to be yanked out by the Inderdictor. The kind of precision Thrawn trained and demanded, the sort of precise jumps expected of Defense Force ships.

On a vector that could only be described as suicidal.

Niriz drew himself up, even as part of his mind was counting down the automated abandon-ship sequence. "Admiral Parck, I protest this action."

"You have your orders to abandon ship, Captain," Parck said, with the serenity of a man who had already accepted his course.

"Parck, are you insane?" Thelea had never shown any sign of being impressed by rank and she did not disappoint now. "I can see what you're trying to do, my Master can see, she'll tell Father, you can't do this!"

Calmly, Parck said, "Acknowledged." And he cut the comm off, silencing Thelea mid-protest. When he turned to look at Niriz, his expression had just the ghost of a smile. "There is no more time, Dagon. We can't take out the _Lusankya_ with turbolasers. Even if we put ourselves between that superlaser and the _Chimaera_ , that might only buy them a few minutes. A smaller ship would barely scratch her. She has to die before she can fire on him. We don't matter. He does." There was something of that same dreamy certainty Niriz remembered in his expression from all those years ago, when Parck had explained to him how Thrawn did not expect the captain to trust him, but rather to trust himself. "This is just the first step in the campaign, Captain. I won't let it end here, too. Who knows?" and the smile became just slightly wry. "Perhaps if I can be precise enough, I might even have a chance."

Niriz opened his mouth to protest, and found there was nothing he could say. He realized the bridge had emptied, and on the tactical readouts there were flickers of tiny light as escape pods launched and the _Admonitor_ 's TIE squadrons, at-ready and reserve both, launched. He could heard the tone of the klaxon change–thirty seconds. He held out his hand, jaw clenching, and Parck shook it gravely before settling deeper into the chair. Thrawn's chair.

Niriz started for the aft end of the bridge and remaining pod, then turned half on his heel. "What do I tell the Admiral?"

Parck, who'd been staring down at where his hands rested against the dark plasteel of the command chair, looked up, and for a second seemed just faintly at a loss. Then he smiled, and beneath the resignation there was a real kind of peace. "Tell him something suitable," he said, and resolutely turned away.

Niriz stared, but then the klaxon's tone registered-fifteen seconds–and he sprinted for the escape pod. As it tumbled away, the homing beacon already tuned to _Basilisk'_ s comm frequency, he had a final brief glimpse of the _Admonitor_ as she hung in space, looking just as she always had, and then there was a flicker of pseudomotion and she was gone.

Pellaeon looked from the tactical readout to the systems repairs to the viewport and back again, willing _some_ number to change to something more favorable. It was a vain hope. _Lusankya_ had nearly completed her turn to accommodate the _Chimaera_ 's drift and unless their supercharged lasers needed more time to reset (and he tried not to think of the shattered image of _Bellicose,_ half-destroyed and dead in space) there was little chance their shields would do anything even if they did recover in time.

Thrawn was standing at the viewport, his hands clasped behind his back, the alien features as impassive as always, and Master Aleishia was beside him. She was, Pellaeon thought absently, far more like a Jedi than C'baoth had ever been, and now she reminded him frightfully of Jedi in the Clone Wars, when they were prepared for a battle they knew they might not win, serene and far too outwardly calm. It was as if neither of them were aware they might only have seconds to live.

"Admiral?" he said quietly, and Thrawn half-turned to look at him. "What are your orders, sir?" No weapons, no comm, no maneuvering thrusters, no way to make anything but a blind jump even if the hyperdrive was really on-line. There was really only one order to give.

"Launch remaining TIE squadrons. Give the order for the rest of the crew to evacuate and get as far from the _Chimaera_ as is feasible to avoid the debris," Thrawn said quietly. He glanced at Aleishia. "You may coordinate with Captain Brandei on the _Judicator_ and Admiral Parck when the _Admonitor_ arrives."

Pellaeon glanced towards the control panel where the key was set, the one that would alert the crew to leave their posts. His finger hovered over it. "If you order it, sir, I'll sound crew evacuation, but for myself, I'll remain here with you."

Thrawn's expression darkened briefly, but then the perfect posture slumped just the slightest trace. "As you will, then," he said, and turned to Aleishia.

She was still smiling that serene smile, and she was already shaking her head. "We've come this far, Mitth'raw'nuruodo," she said quietly. "I would do my first apprentice a disservice if I abandoned you now. And we both know that Thelea will be fine, no matter what."

"So she will," Thrawn said, not even bothering to protest. There was the faintest flicker of some emotion in his eyes. "Tell her . . . tell her to keep well clear," was all he said, though.

"She knows," the Jedi said quietly, looking away again. "She doesn't like it, but she knows." Then her eyes suddenly widened and the color drained from her face. "What–he can't!"

"Who? Can't what?" Thrawn said, instantly back on alert. Pellaeon looked from his Admiral to the Jedi and back again.

"The _Admonitor,_ " Aleishia said, "Parck cut Thelea off, but she thinks he's planning something very foolish and I can feel she's right."

Thrawn turned automatically towards the comm officer and Pellaeon saw him check himself, realizing the ionization damage was still keeping them deaf and mute. "Tell her to override their communications," he said, but was interrupted again.

"Captain!" The tactical officer was leaning over his operations crewman's shoulder, staring at the readout with a pale, almost sick expression. "We're reading a major power surge in the _Lusankya's_ weapons systems," he called up to them.

Instinct spun Pellaeon back towards the viewport, trying not to see the pale, shaken expressions on the crews' faces as they had to realize it was too late to order an evacuation now, and he cursed himself for hesitating for their sake if not his own. Thrawn and Aleishia were looking back to the Super Star Destroyer, and Pellaeon felt a surge of pride that his Admiral at least was as cool andsteady as ever. Aleishia met the Captain's eye, and there was something comforting in her expression.

Outside, _Lusankya_ had stopped her turn, ignoring the pounding from the other Destroyers, who had their own assailants in the form of bel Iblis's remaining Dreadnaughts. There was nothing between her bow and the _Chimaera._

There was a flare of motion, bright white, and Pellaeon discovered that the proximity alerts had not been knocked off-line by the ion blast as they began shrieking a warning about something passing far too close, enough to make the hull shake. He had a brief impression of a ship, a Star Destroyer decelerating out of hyperspace between them and the _Lusankya_ , and then the viewport, and his vision, were blotted out by a blinding explosion.


	4. Chapter 4

  


 

Thelea screamed into the void even as she fought to keep her fighter from tumbling end-over-end in the shock wave from the massive collision. Her computer had twenty kinds of alert shrieking and flashing and she also was receiving an overwhelming amount of emotion from the Force. It was disconcertingly like Endor, when the shock of the Death Star and the _Executor_ 's destructions had sent her tumbling from the tree she'd crashed in. This time, though, as she forced herself to pay attention, the worst was not the number of dead. The worst was the emotions of those watching, already afraid or resigned or in pain and now numbed, horrified, unable to process what their eyes and sensors were telling them.

The _Lusankaya_ was not obliterated. At least, not completely, and not yet. The actual impact had been so fast, the ship-cum-missile traveling so quickly, it had been impossible to process. She'd had a fleeting impression of an Imperial Star Destroyer and then . . . the Super Star Destroyer had been shattered into pieces. "Unzipped" was a good term, if it weren't horrifying to contemplate where a starship was concerned. Her bow end was mostly particulate debris, including whatever the massive weapon they'd mounted on her under the construction girders. The stern end, including the conning tower, was in slightly better shape, but only in the sense there might be survivors. Undoubtedly a few of the ysalamiri frames had come through, as there were still null pockets in the sections of the ship that were now broken almost apart, momentum from the colossal force of a ship only barely at sublight and the resultant explosions of its ordinance, engines, hyperdrive core, all the matter making it up reentering normal space within essentially the same spot as the _Lusankya_ had occupied, slowly twisting the half-joined remnants further apart. The _Judicator_ and _Relentless_ were helping it along, presumably in absence of other orders from the still-maimed _Chimaera,_ turbolasers broadsiding the largest remaining pieces despite no further response from any weapons systems. Whether that was because the crew had more pressing concerns, or because the crew were all dead, she couldn't be sure.

Of the ship that had inflicted the fatal injury, absolutely nothing remained. Perhaps somewhere in the twisted hulk at the center of the damage, there might be a few identifiable fragments embedded in plassteel, but certainly nothing larger. Nothing of whomever had programmed and controlled the mad, suicidal jump, nothing to give a proper funeral in space–final disintegration was already accomplished. The timing had been flawless, the jump exquisitely precise, and the results catastrophic for both target and attacker.

And there was only one ship, one commander, who could have, would have, done it.

Thelea was distantly aware of a buzzing in her mind, and abruptly she had a ghostly impression of the Interdictor's bridge, and Tam, hesitantly and with an awkwardness rivaling her own first attempts at initiating speaking mind to mind (though already more articulate; given her own inept first attempts it would be difficult not to be), she heard him ask, _Was that on purpose? What ship was that?_

Thelea didn't want to form the thought, but she already was. Couldn't help it. _It was_ Admonitor. _It had to be._ They had been with her father since his false exile from the Core, their crew had even gradually acquired some representatives of her own people from the Hand, they were her father's first experiment at holding a mostly-human crew to the standards he expected. Those of the Defense Force. Including, Force help them all, precision short-range hyperspace jumps. And of all the Imperials who had come with him, no one had embraced every teaching Thrawn had to offer as fully as Voss Parck.

And no one save herself would be as ready to sacrifice his life for his Admiral.

An alert, non-urgent, chirped, and she looked at her tracking computer. Three Destroyers, quickly identified as _Hydra_ , _Manticore,_ and _Gorgon_ , had dropped out of hyperspace at a much safer, more rational distance, pulled in by _Constrainer_ 's gravity-well generator. _Home One_ began what looked like a half-hearted turn towards the new threats, but even as the Imperial reinforcements opened up on the Rebel ships, the flagship's response seemed belated. Rote. Stunned.

_Well, you deserve it!_ She had realized the thought was so loud until she felt Tam's flinch in the Force.

Another flicker of pseudomotion and _Basilisk_ joined her sisters. Thelea wondered at the delay, and opened a comm channel. " _Basilisk,_ Talon One. Tell me you were late because you were picking up life pods."

To her everlasting relief, the response was in a familiar gruff voice, though she thought there was a pained rasp to it that she had never heard before. "They were, Talon One," Captain Niriz said. "We have most of _Admonitor'_ s . . . survivors aboard. Some of her TIE squadrons will need a pickup at the staging point."

She wanted, desperately, to ask what had happened, but on an open channel it was impossible. So she only said the obvious, "And Admiral Parck?"

There was the faintest pause. "I can see now what he had in mind." Niriz's voice was suddenly very hoarse indeed. "Is _Chimaera_ badly damaged?"

Thelea banked around, aiming for the wounded flagship as she replied. "I'm not sure if their comm is back on-line, but no evacuation, no hull breach." _Master?_ Tentatively, she reached for Aleishia's mind.

The stunned, pained, dully horrified sense that reached back nearly overwhelmed her. _Apprentice._ Aleishia felt . . . old. Old and tired and numbly horrified. _We are alive. And unharmed. Physically, at least. It's still some minutes before the comms will be functional. As for the rest . . . ._

Talk about your answers that left plenty of room for interpretation. Thelea kicked her engines hotter, closing the distance to the _Chimaera_ and scanning her with the targeting computer. Shields were coming back up, hull integrity good . . . . She reached farther with her mind, searching for her father's cold-stone sense in the Force.

She wished she hadn't. She could tell his facade was unbroken and no hint of the turmoil showed, but she could feel the stunned, horrified anguish beneath. He had already puzzled out what had happened, what must have happened, and he knew who had taught Parck how to control a hyperspace jump with that degree of precision. He had personally given Parck the instrument of his destruction-and in the process saved himself and the _Chimaera_ and likely the entire campaign.

A red bolt slashed past, close enough to ding a percent off her shields and she snapped her focus back to the world around her. The Rebel Dreadnaught– _Peregrine_ –was aiming for the crippled _Chimaera_ , a belated closing maneuver now that their main plan had been so catastrophically foiled. Pivoting the A-wing she released her last two concussion missiles at the Dreadnaught. " _Basilisk_ , order your group to engage the Rebel capital ships. _Judicator_ and _Relentless_ will finish the _Lusankya_ , _Nemesis_ can mop up the freighter traffic. We need to keep everything away from _Chimaera_ until her shields are at strength again." _Tam, have them move_ Constrainer _to block the Mon Cal cruisers' best escape vector._ True, she hadn't technically been given those orders, but no one save possibly Tam knew that.

"Is the order still disable, not destroy?" There was a certain note to Niriz's voice that suggested he very much hoped the order had changed. Thelea couldn't blame him.

But she didn't have to check with her father to know that was not the case. "Yes. Take their shields down, disable hyperdrives, try to keep fighter destruction to a minimum. We just need to keep them from escaping until _Chimaera_ 's systems are on-line." Her targeting computer picked up three X-wings on an attack vector for the flagship, and she kicked her engines to the maximum and set an intercept course.

Pellaeon focused on the status reports being flung left and right at him, fixing his mind on the numbers and the voices and the countdown for each system as it came back on-line. There were casualty reports, too, mostly injuries, and it was a small mercy after what they had witnessed through the viewports. And if he was dealing with the details, listening to the damage reports and injury lists, then he was filtering it before Grand Admiral Thrawn had to deal with them. Because right now, he was not certain his Admiral was truly in a frame of mind to deal with anything other than what had just happened.

Neither Thrawn nor Aleishia had moved from the viewports since all of their vision had recovered from the brilliant flash of the impact. Thrawn was staring at the rapidly-disintegrating pieces of the Super Star Destroyer, watching the battle unfold in the only way available to him until the sensors came back on-line. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back and at a cursory glance he did not appear any different than normal beyond not having his normal tactical displays available and therefore relying on visual scanning. But Pellaeon thought there was a very unnatural rigidity to his stance, a stiffness of his back and shoulders that bespoke pain more than discipline.

Aleishia was not bothering to contain her reaction. One hand was pressed over her mouth, her other arm clasped across her body almost defensively, and she seemed to struggle to hold herself upright. Her eyes, too, were on the debris that had once been _Lusankya_ and her attacker. Pellaeon was still unsure what he'd seen, but he'd heard Aleishia cry out a name and seen the stark expression on Thrawn's face when he heard it. She looked so pale, he wondered if he ought to call for a medic.

"Master Jedi?" When Pellaeon received no response, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Please, Master Aleishia, you need to sit down."

Carefully, as if she might release a scream, Aleishia lowered her hand from her mouth. "No, Captain," and her voice sounded very faint. "I will be quite all right, and I am needed here." She looked at Thrawn, staring hard as if looking for some sign. "Look to your Admiral, Captain. This battle isn't over yet."

Pellaeon wasn't sure whether the comment was really meant for him, or for Thrawn. The other hadn't moved, so he took a deep breath, and said, "Admiral, navigation reports the computers are functional again, and comm estimates no more than two minutes to full communications restoration. Shields are at 68% now. We are able to jump and we have some maneuvering capabilities. What are your orders, sir?"

Thrawn didn't reply for a moment, but only a brief one. "As soon as the comm is functional, inform _Basilisk_ of our condition and pass along the orders to the other ships–focus on the Rebel warships, but especially _Home One._ To the point of shield failure, not hull failure. Notify me as soon as the comm is restored."

"Yes, Admiral." Pellaeon wanted to ask. He'd seen the Destroyer's shadow and knew it had to be one of the reserve ships, and there was little to no chance that anything of the ship had survived. Somehow more numbing was the realization this could not have been an accident in the hyperspace jump. The Imperial-class Destroyer had made the jump deliberately, shattering the _Lusankya_ and the superlaser it carried at the cost of its own survival. An entire Destroyer, its crew . . . he didn't dare ask which one yet.

The tactical displays were lighting up again, information returning as the sensors recovered from the ion blasts, and he could see the identities of the inbound Destroyers. _Manticore, Hydra, Gorgon . . . ._ that left two absent, and when a moment later _Basilisk_ joined her sisters, he knew which it must have been, confirmed his suspicions, really.

"Comm system on-line, Captain," and like the rest of the crewers the man-boy, really-at the station sounded both anxious and relieved, as if he weren't quite sure whether the danger was over or only postponed. "Transmission from Talon One–"

"Put it through," Thrawn interrupted. Pellaeon hadn't even heard him move from the viewport. Aleishia was watching them, but she had not moved, and she had that faintly distracted expression that she seemed to have when attending to Jedi matters. A vast improvement, he was forced to admit, over C'baoth's arrogantly confident serenity.

Thelea's voice sounded raspy, as if she were struggling to contain her emotions. "Niriz is aboard the _Basilisk,_ F-Admiral," and Pellaeon knew she'd used the rank formality only at the last second. "So is most of the crew. Some of the TIEs will need a pickup." There was a sound of a long breath being drawn. "There was only one aboard when she jumped."

Thrawn closed his eyes a moment, but when he replied his voice was as cool and steady as always. "Noted. Fighters are to focus on the Rebel dreadnaughts and any remaining Rebel fighters. _Constrainer_ , prevent the Mon Cal cruisers from escaping. Destroyers are to disable them." The glowing red gaze, impassable and unreadable as always, was fixed on the tactical readouts. One of the Rebel dreadnaughts was drifting, the crippled tilt of a ship trying to maneuver for an escape vector but whose helm was hampered by severe battle damage. "Comm, I require two standby channels. The first is to all Imperial combat vessels. The second is an all-channels transmission. Any frequencies which the Rebels might be using."

Pellaeon frowned as the comm officer programmed the two communications bands, but Thrawn gave no explanation, instead turning back to the tactical display. The clearly-crippled _Mon Remonda_ was turning as well, rear batteries trying to dive away both _Nemesis_ and her reinforcement, the _Hydra_. It would be a futile attempt, however–her clearest path to hyperspace was once again closed off by the Interdictor Cruiser's gravity well. _Home One,_ meanwhile, was not even attempting to flee, which was likely the wiser course as _Manticore_ and _Relentless_ were closing on her, _Gorgon_ nearby and addressing the dreadnaught escorts. A quick scan told him _Judicator_ had joined _Basilisk_ and both were closing on _Chimaera'_ s position, clearing away the smaller Rebel ships as they approached. The remains of the _Lusankya_ were spreading apart, the larger pieces creating their own navigation hazards among the smaller debris and the battle traffic.

_Chimaera_ shuddered as one of the Rebels' converted freighter-warships realized she was coming back on-line and opened fire at distance. A massive salvo from _Judicator_ 's guns silenced the threat and left the ship a drifting hulk. One of the dreadnaughts, he thought one of bel Iblis's own group, was also making a run, but not only did a wing of TIEs with that incongruous A-wing dive in, one of their own Carrack cruisers put on a burst of speed and flung itself at the Rebel, batteries blazing, and despite the size disparity threw itself between the oncoming Rebel warship and their flagship.

Thrawn's brow furrowed and he appeared genuinely nonplused. Thelea's A-wing shot between _Chimaera_ and the Carrack's target, clearly taunting the Rebel gunners and daring them to shoot at her, the small capital ship, anywhere but her father's flagship. "That," Thrawn said, the irritation clear in his tone, "needs to stop. Your apprentice is taking unnecessary risks again."

"Not 'my apprentice' at the moment," Aleishia said. Her gaze was still fixed out the window. "And hardly alone."

Pellaeon followed her gaze, and compared what visual scanning told him to what he was seeing on the tactical readout. The Imperial fleet had rearranged itself, not entirely in keeping with Thrawn's orders. Other than _Constrainer_ maintaining her blocking position, the other capital ships and their fighter support were reorienting themselves, still assaulting their targets but all moving so that they were creating a barrier, shield and weapons status notwithstanding, between any still-active hostile ships and the _Chimaera_. Even as he watched the _Relentless_ swung as hard as an Imperial-class Destroyer could on a pivot point, grabbing with her tractors and slowing a Rebel dreadnaught that was moving for a broadside before unleashing her own turbolasers on the hapless ship. His eyes sought out those same numbers he'd consulted long ago, and he felt the same unease as he had that first time C'baoth had coordinated them.

This time, though, the notion seemed even harder to believe. "Master Aleishia?" His tone was far more hesitant than he liked, but it seemed far less believable even than before.

Thrawn, of course, missed nothing. "This is your doing?" He didn't bother with the honorific and there was real danger in his tone. Pellaeon wondered if he was thinking of the ysalamiri, now concentrated in their aft cargo bays.

Aleishia, though, only smiled, Pellaeon thought a bit sadly. "I said no battle meditations. I doubt I'd know how to even try. This is none of my doing, Mitth'raw'nurodo," she said, her gaze turning back to the battle. "This is entirely yours."

Pellaeon did not understand. The fleet was showing that same coordination, that same efficiency, exceeding even the best of their training standards. Thrawn, though, wore an expression Pellaeon had never seen on the Grand Admiral's face before: incomprehension. The Captain turned and looked down the crew pit, watching the quick, disciplined actions of officers and their subordinates, finally truly hearing the tone in their voices as they called out status reports, targets, requests for orders . . . cool. Confident. Even eager. They were functioning to a standard even in the old days he might only have dreamed of, especially in a situation where they'd been moments from total destruction. His crew was at their absolute peak, giving their all, and they were supremely confident of victory.

Not for themselves. For their Admiral.

Thrawn was staring, too, incomprehension giving way to genuine astonishment as he traced the new trajectories the Imperial ships were following, realizing what the new priority was–defend their flagship until she could defend herself. Protect their Admiral, no matter the cost. And it was at cost, as an explosion from the Carrack who'd put herself between the dreadnaught and the _Chimaera_ showed. _Judicator_ and _Basilisk_ were taking stations to either flank, using their port and starboard batteries respectively to cover for _Chimaera_ 's damaged defenses. "This was not the priority," Thrawn said, fainter than Pellaeon ever recalled hearing his voice. "The priority is the Rebels' flagship."

"You are going to have a very difficult time convincing any Imperial officer of that now," Aleishia said quietly. "After what . . . _he_ did, they won't hesitate. They aren't fighting to achieve a tactical goal, though they _will_ achieve it because of who asks them to." She closed her eyes, and a serene smile curved her lips. "They're fighting for _you,_ Grand Admiral Thrawn."

Amazing how a name and rank could sound so entirely different depending on the speaker. C'baoth had made the full rank into an insult. Aleishia made it a proclamation. Or a prophecy. But whether it was her Jedi intuition or simple fact, she was correct. Pellaeon had known already that the _Chimaera_ 's crew was prepared to die for their Admiral, but after seeing the _Admonitor_ 's sacrifice they had turned imminent disaster into a rallying point. The entire fleet, even the resentful Dorja, were making it clear to the Rebels in terms no one could mistake: _If you want our Admiral, you go through us._ All _of us._

"Admiral Thrawn, we have a report from _Manticore,_ " and Pellaeon had to fight the instinct to beam with pride at the crisp, professional tone from the comm officer. " _Home One_ has shields at 14% with damage to her sublight systems. _Mon Remonda_ shows shields at critical, hull damage at 5%."

Thrawn nodded, his composure apparently returned. "Signal all ships: hold fire and hold position. Act only to prevent further damage to our ships. When they've complied," and he stared hard out the viewport, his gaze clearly settling on the drifting form of the Rebel flagship, "open the all-ships frequency."

Somehow, some way, it had all gone wrong.

Bel Iblis was still not certain he had seen what he thought he had. The _Lusankya_ had jumped in perfectly in spite of worries about her restored hyperdriver, the mass laser mounted on her bow (heavy Hapan technology with some inspiration from the Imperials' own famous superweapons) and worked exactly as intended, _Chimaera_ had been and clearly in some respects still was disabled as they planned, it had only required a minor shift in position even the hastily-repaired maneuvering thrusters could manage, if slowly, and the threat of Grand Admiral Thrawn would be over. Instead, in a blaze of hyperspace deceleration, the entire battle had gone straight to hell.

_Home One'_ s sensors had barely even registered the ship entering from hyperspace before the _Lusankya_ ripped apart, apparently from within. He couldn't believe it, couldn't comprehend the notion–Thrawn ordering a Star Destroyer to make a suicidal run to save himself, sacrificing so many lives to protect his own. And then he realized that it could _not_ have been an order, at least none relayed by conventional means, as _Chimaera'_ s comm had still been down. They monitored no transmissions, in or out, and that meant unless Thrawn really did still have Jedi or Jedi clones or whatever C'baoth had been working for him, he was mute and deaf to his fleet. Some commander of the reserve fleet (and where had _those_ come from? Four more Destroyers, five if you counted the one that had struck the Super) had taken it on himself to make the ultimate sacrifice, and the rest of the fleet clearly had taken that as inspiration. Simply destroying _Chimaera_ was abruptly off the table, and a head to head battle with the bulk of the Imperial fleet was once again the only apparent means of victory.

And, as he steadied himself against yet another rattling blow from a Destroyer's turbolaser, the chances of achieving that were dwindling by the minute.

"General bel Iblis," Teuthal said, "our shields are at twelve percent, and we are showing critical damage to our sublight engines. If we are to withdraw–"

"Withdraw?" Even as he said it, on the tactical readout the _Peregrine_ tried to maneuver out of range of the Carrack-class cruiser that had intercepted their run on the disabled _Chimaera_. He felt his heart clench and willed his people to get clear-they were farther from the Interdictor, if they could get a clean vector they might have a chance. "Captain, if we withdraw–"

"We may survive to fight on," Teuthal interrupted, and bel Iblis contained a flare of temper. The Mon Cal officer would never have interrupted Ackbar . . . but then, he wasn't Ackbar, was he? Ackbar had already lost the confidence of the New Republic's Inner Council. They had, truth be told, largely lost confidence that this war could really be won at all. "If our shields are lost, our drive will be next. We will be at their mercy."

"If we run now, Thrawn holds the galactic crossroads. He has a clear path to the Core and our choices will be run or die trying to hold Coruscant." He tried to see some way, some reserve they could call on, some last-minute miracle like Yavin or at least the desperate escape as at Hoth, or so many of his own group's vanishing acts. Some hope that they would at least live to fight another day.

The _Mon Remonda'_ s icon on the targeting computer began blinking an alarming yellow, her shields gone, engines at critical risk. Deep within the Interdictor's gravity well, there was nowhere for her to run. Another of the fire ships vanished in a cloud of debris as the Imperials, no longer trusting anything not broadcasting one of their cods, targeted it long-range and blasted it before it could close on any of their ships. That stolen A-wing, whoever was flying at it, lead one of the remaining fighters on a breakneck chase among the Republic dreadnaughts, nearly catching the pilot in a friendly crossfire.

"There is another option." Teuthal spoke so quietly, the gravelly Mon Cal accent so thick, bel Iblis barely understood.

Didn't want to understand, really.

"Captain," and the interruption came from the comm station. " _Chimaera_ is transmitting an all-frequency hail. I think it is meant for our ships."

Teuthal looked at bel Iblis and for a moment his instinct said to ignore it. There was only one thing Thrawn was likely to be broadcasting now, and he was not in the mood to hear Imperial threats and ultimatums, no matter who was issuing them. But he forced the thought aside. It was impossible to fight a battle without knowing as much information as possible, and this was, of course, being offered. "On speaker," he said finally, "bridge only."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting. There were few recordings from battles and nothing in the records on Coruscant to say what Grand Admiral Thrawn was like. The voice spoke with a flawless Coruscanti accent, no hint of alien origins, in tones that were cool and modulated and not even slightly hostile.

"Rebel ships, this is Grand Admiral Thrawn." No gloating. Of course, not. Whatever else this Grand Admiral was, he was a consummate professional soldier. No hint he'd been seconds from destruction, either, which made him either a fool or a supremely cool customer. Recent battle statistics argued strongly against the former. "You have fought bravely and well. There is no need to die in a desperate sacrifice for a lost cause."

Bel Iblis barely contained a snort of derision. "Lost causes are what we do," he muttered in the general direction of the _Chimaera._ But unnervingly, none of _Home One_ 's bridge crew were moving at all, to deride or deny. They were listening.

That was not a good sign.

"My intention is pacification and order, not extermination." If he hadn't known better, bel Iblis would have thought the son of a Hutt actually believed that. "If you stand down and surrender, there need be no further destruction today." There was the briefest pause, letting that notion sink in. "My conditions are simple: all Rebel warships will stand down immediately. You will lower your shields and shut down your sublight engines. All fighters are to return to their carriers and power down. Your crews will surrender your vessels to boarding parties, who will not be met with armed resistance. Captains and senior officers will be taken into temporary custody." _Temporary_ , and that got a shuddering reaction. Too many Mon Cal knew what Imperial custody was likely to mean. "Crews will be temporarily confined to quarters until the ships are secured by the prize crews. At that time, any crew members wishing to resume their duties will be permitted to do so, provided they understand the cost of resistance. Yag-Prime will submit to temporary occupation by an Imperial garrison, on the same terms. Any action against Imperial officers and crew will be punished swiftly and severely. Those who cooperate will be permitted to continue in their duties until the status of Imperial Center is resolved."

"Like hell they will," and bel Iblis could see he was not the only one skeptical. He did, however, appear to be the only one who was overtly defiant.

As if he could hear them across the void of space, Thrawn said, "This could be greatly expedited by your commander. General bel Iblis, if you are listening, I invite you to personally surrender your flag. If you and you senior officers surrender yourselves into Imperial custody, you will be treated as honorable prisoners of war, if that is what you wish after our meeting."

_Prisoners if we wish, as opposed to what? Does he think we'd really want to defect?_ Bel Iblis shook his head, the blood pounding in his ears, but one thing was certain: they could not submit to Imperial capture. If Thrawn was talking, that meant for some reason _he_ wanted to end the battle now, not to continue the fight, and that meant it was in the Republic ships' best interest to fight on. Rattled, most likely, he'd put together why the _Lusankya_ was-had been-here, and the _Chimaera_ had been damaged. He wanted to stop the fight now, before further risk to himself . . . .

"Consider my officer carefully." _Now_ there was ice in that voice. "If you chose to continue this battle, we will have no choice but to destroy you. Your greatest ships are only moments from complete systems failures. We _can_ defeat you and easily. But there is no need for any more to die today. Comply with my terms, and none will."

There was a long pause. Clearly, Thrawn was waiting for a reply. Looking around the bridge, bel Iblis saw far too many doubtful expressions, hard as it was to tell with Mon Calamari. His eyes returned to the tactical readout. For the moment it appeared the Imperials were complying with Thrawn's plan. The turbolaser batteries had fallen silent, the fighters were moving through the ships and debris without shooting, only evading the now-hesitant Republic ships instead of engaging or nagging at them. In the heart of it, the _Chimaera_ hung in space, her bow oriented in the general direction of Yag-Prime, and bel Iblis could imagine the alien admiral standing on the bridge, staring out across the void between them, waiting for his answer.

Before he could order the comm officer to open a channel so he could tell Thrawn precisely where he could put his so-generous officer, the comm speaker cracked. " _Chimaera,_ this is _Mon Remonda,"_ said a hesitant voice. "If we comply, the crew will not be imprisoned? Or . . . enslaved?"

"What the blazes is he doing?" bel Iblis said, not sure if he meant _Mon Remonda'_ s captain or Thrawn.

"Her shields are down," Teuthal said, and it was impossible to tell if there was reproval in the tone, or if that reproval was meant for the other Mon Cal captain or for bel Iblis. "Her hull is compromised. If she attempts to fight on, she will die."

On the comm, they could hear the reply from the Grand Admiral, in a tone that was almost soothing, in an eerie way. "There will be _no_ enslavement," and it certainly sounded sincere. "Crew who wish to remain at their posts may do so once the prize crews have secured the vessels. Those who do not wish to cooperate will be treated as prisoners of war. The Empire no longer deals in slaves."

There was another brief pause. "Acknowledged, _Chimaera_ ," and more frightening than the resignation in the captain's voice was the relief. " _Mon Remonda_ stands down."

Bel Iblis felt light-headed. He wasn't sure if it was shock, rage, or some combination of the two. Before he could gather his thoughts another voice came on-line, one of the Dreadnaughts, repeating the acknowledgment and the stand-down declaration. Thrawn's reply he heard through a roaring of blood in his ears, that gracious, cool, supremely-controlled voiced accepting their surrender with condescending courtesy. On the tactical display he saw the fighters vanishing, returning to their hangars, and more ships lowering what was left of their shields. _Peregrine_ had not and he willed them to fight back, show the rest what fools they were being, as he fully intended _Home One_ to do.

He looked around the bridge. The crew had gone very still, most looking at their stations, some turned slightly, watching him for some hint of his intentions. The atmosphere was strange, and not just the higher humidity the majority of the crew required. Finally, speaking for them all, he suspected, Teuthal said, "What are your orders, General?"

For a moment, he didn't know how to reply. On the tactical display, _Peregrine_ was maneuvering, slowly, as subtly as a ship her size could, and her drive signature was increasing. _Go on, run! Blast your way out and send word._ It was more a wish than anything; if he tried to actually send the message, of course the Imperials would hear it. _Come on, Irenez. We've been in tighter spots than this._

The Dreadnaught's sublight engines flared to life, and the heavy forward cannons unleashed a salvo at the nearest Destroyer. Even as she was turning to fire, though, that stolen A-wing came racing about, trailing TIE Interceptors in its wake, made a vicious strafing run down the _Peregrine's_ midline, its lasers targeting far too many important systems to be random firing. The Destroyer which had been the victim of the _Peregrine_ 's sudden resumption of hostilities returned fire, its own blasts clearly targeted carefully as well There was a bright, terrible explosion near the Dreadnaught's nacelles and lights within the ship began to flicker and die. Even worse, and he felt real pain stabbing at his gut, he could see clouds of crystalizing gas swirling away from spots on the hull. Not enough to have vented the entire ship, but his people were dying. Better death than surrender to the Empire, but . . . his people . . . .

"Shall we continue, General bel Iblis?" There were ice worlds somewhere with surfaces colder than that voice, bel Iblis was sure, but for the moment he couldn't name one. "I assure you the need for ships and crews is not _so_ dire we cannot spare another Dreadnaught. It's their decision, and yours." The Destroyer was once again holding fire, the fighters circling back to a greater distance, _Peregrine_ now keeling over as the venting air and damaged engines skewed her momentum.

"Damn him to all nine hells." Bel Iblis turned to Teuthal. "Our weapons are still on-line?"

The Mon Cal hesitated. "Yes, General." Something in the tone, even in the gravelly accent, seemed . . . off. "Our weapons are operational, as is the hyperdrive, but our shields and hull–"

"We don't need to hold long, only enough to damage those Destroyers and give any other ships time to break free with us." Any hope of taking the damaged _Chimaera_ was remote. The rest of the Imperial fleet had made clear the cost of any assault would be fatally high. Further open battle with the rest was futile. Escape was their only option. "If we target the Interdictor, even a momentary loss of the grav well can buy us an escape route. Something of the fleet must survive."

Teuthal's wide, lidless eyes rolled, one focusing on the tactical readouts and the other fixing on him. "It is unlikely we would ourselves survive the attempt."

"But some of the rest of the ships might!" It was slipping away faster than he'd realized. Victory was long gone, and it was only survival now, another hit and fade and bolting to safety to fight another day, but from the way Teuthal and the mostly-Mon Cal bridge crew was looking at him . . . how had their Rebellion come to this? "What other option do we have?"

There was a long, long pause, in which the entire galaxy felt oddly suspended. Finally, Teuthal said quietly, "The Grand Admiral has offered us one." She must have read the look on bel Iblis's face because she spoke quickly, before he could reply, "To fight on means certain destruction, with no guarantee it will facilitate escape for others. If you order us to, we will fight, but, General, I must advise against it. For my crew's sake. We do not fear dying, but I cannot in good conscience condone their dying when the cause is hopeless."

Part of him railed against the word 'hopeless', at the notion that their cause was lost, whether that meant the battle or (as seemed increasingly likely) the war itself. He glared at the captain, but she did not look away, and the crew was watching him now with skepticism, reluctance. He wanted to shout at them, or beg them, to point to the _Peregrine_ and her crew, still trying to fight, knowing after all their long years with him that he would not want them to give up. And then part of him thought, _All those years_. And he looked at _Home One_ 's crew. Some were Ackbar's veterans, true, but some were young, come to the Republic Navy after Endor, after the alleged beginnings of peace. On other ships it was the same–young people, many of whom hadn't been born when he and Irenez and the others had left the fledgling Alliance and struck out on their own private campaign. Even among his own crews . . . there were children of people who had been with him for those same decades. They had been with him literally their entire lives. They'd end those lives now if he asked, but what would he gain in return?

What kind of commander asked his troops for such sacrifice purely for the sake of being in the right rather than a hope, however faint, of victory?

He never had. He had learned of late that Mon Mothma did not.

And it seemed, much as he hated to accept the evidence before his eyes, even Grand Admiral Thrawn would consider it a waste.

Bel Iblis turned away. _Has it really come to this? My home, my family, the Senate, the Alliance . . .how has it come down to nothing but my pride?_

He stared out the viewport at the two fleets, suspended mid-battle, and drew in a deep breath.

"Open a channel to the _Chimaera_ ," he said. Teuthal shivered visibly, but nodded to the comm officer. Bel Iblis barely noticed, willing his voice to be steady and calm. He had stood before Palpatine himself. He had fought Mon Mothma on matters of principle. This, he could do with the same dignity. "Grand Admiral Thrawn," and the rank nearly choked him, but he kept his voice level. "This is General bel Iblis."

In cockpit of her A-wing, Thelea, listening on the open channel with the rest of the fleet, held her breath.

On the _Chimaera'_ s bridge, Pellaeon turned from the tactical readout as the voice, one he knew as well as any who remembered the late Republic and the Senate, came over the comm. Aleishia was turning from the viewport and he caught her eye. She was still pale and drawn, but he saw that like him, she was suddenly catching her breath, and there was a hint of a hopeful, disbelieving smile in her eyes.

Thrawn was once again seated in is command chair, his posture almost at ease, expression as alien and unreadable as ever save for the faintest curving upwards of his lips. "I am listening, General bel Iblis," he said, his tone still the epitome of cool courtesy.

Bel Iblis closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. When he spoke, he was, distantly, proud that his voice was firm and steady. "We accept your terms, Grand Admiral. _Home One_ stands down. We surrender."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone deals with the aftermath of battle, bel Iblis makes a decision, Thrawn and Thelea have a moment to mourn, and make SURE you read to the end as we're finally getting some crossover in our crossover story.

  


The A-wing paced the shuttle from _Home One,_ slightly ahead, with shields and weapons hot. Not that she anticipated any sort of trouble-the shuttle was flown by an Imperial crew, and the passengers were not likely to try anything foolish. Then again, it was bel Iblis, and Thelea's own danger sense was not entirely at ease.

That might simply have been the faint unreality of the entire situation. After all these years, after Endor, it seemed impossible to believe they might actually be on the cusp of victory. She could sense the same feeling permeating the fleet–half hope, half fear. All but two–Master Aleishia, harder to read than others as she could sense the mental probe and block it, but with a profounder than usual sense of melancholia, seemed oddly withdrawn. Then again, this New Republic alleged to be the heir of the old Republic, from which she'd come and which had been the home of the Jedi Order that had been her family for the first twenty-five years of her life. It was not unreasonable or all that unusual for her to be conflicted, especially in the face of such drastic change. Of course, she also knew reinstatement of order was only the first step in the plan, and that the first and one of the worst of the threats necessitating phase two were even now gaining strength and growing closer.

And her father . . . Thelea couldn't tell if he was genuinely unmoved, or in some sort of shock. In the years since Endor, Master Aleishia had complained more than one to her apprentice about Mitth'raw'nuruodo and his near-supernatural ability to hide his feelings even from a Jedi. Thelea had originally dismissed the notion as more human misunderstanding-her people simply did not wear their hearts on their sleeves. Rurik and Giriad had experienced that problem with her and _she_ was self-aware enough to admit her own self-control was by Chiss standards hopelessly lacking. But after more time getting used to her father, she'd begun to realize her Master was on to something. Thrawn could bury any reaction so deeply it was fair to mistake it for complete lack of feeling. He was now _so_ closed off, so glacial, she wondered if it was more than just deliberately controlling his response. Perhaps because Parck–

She stopped herself, before her Master or Tam caught the sudden surge of emotion. She hadn't known the Vice-Admiral even a fraction as long as her father had, and in the years since she'd joined the Empire of the Hand she'd become closer to the gruff, acerbic Niriz. In some way, she suspected the Captain reminded her of Seln, the old retainer who'd been the only one of her mother's people to stay near her after Thrawn's exile, even if she'd forgotten it until it was too late. But while Niriz was a surrogate uncle, Parck was a constant, the first Imperial officer to meet Thrawn and sense the greatness he'd discovered, and who'd wholeheartedly accepted the alien Grand Admiral's vision for the future of the galaxy. As such, faster than anyone, he'd accepted Thelea as both officer and family, and she had never heard him even slightly question her father's judgement or orders.

All things considered, it was a minor miracle her father _had_ followed human and his own eccentric conventions and fought them to a standstill. If his instinct had been to give no quarter, as their people would, she at least would have understood. But it would have been unpleasant.

They were approaching _Chimaera_ 's docking bay and she gunned her engines, speeding ahead and landing while the shuttle made a more careful approach and the TIE escort veered away toward their own hangar. She was yanking her decoy helmet off and unstrapping the life-support harness even before she powered down, trying to strip to a halfway-decent uniform before the shuttle could lower its ramp. By the time she popped the canopy and climbed to the floor, her jumpsuit at least looked presentable, if not formal enough for a momentous moment in galactic history. She left the gloves on. Her mismatched hands were still a distraction, even to herself. Habit, and that lingering sense of unease, made her check that her own lightsaber was securely at her belt and her mother's was in its out-of-the-way ankle holster. She almost took the time to swap them, but her own hilt was longer and not as comfortable on her leg. It seemed oddly fitting that part of her mother was with them, still.

The shuttle ramp dropped and two stormtroopers lead the procession down. There were seven prisoners, guests, whatever her father wanted to call them. Four were Mon Calamari, and she made a concerted effort not to stare. She'd seen stranger races in her own sector of space but had limited experience of the Core races other than humans, and the strange aquatic creatures seemed particularly alien. The other three were human, two young, and one . . . she didn't know bel Iblis by sight, but the tall male with an aged man's silvering hair and a dignified bearing, walking at the head of the Rebel group, could only be him.

He was also the only prisoner wearing a blaster.

Thelea froze, her fingers twitching toward her lightsaber's hilt, but the sense of the stormtrooper guard was correct-some clones, mostly human, none thinking about anything other than their duty, so clearly they were following orders in this regard, as they were regarding bel Iblis's lack of binders. The other prisoners were disarmed, and while bel Iblis was clearly maintaining his dignity, she didn't sense imminent danger and his hand was not resting near the grip. Still, she quickened her pace, trying to get between the procession and the exit to the lifts, when the doors slid open and she saw her father.

Thelea came to a halt. Thrawn stepped into the hangar, the white uniform pristine, his face unreadable even to another Chiss. Dimly she was aware of Pellaeon, a gray ghost behind his right shoulder, and farther back on the left, Aleishia followed with the hood of her dark blue robes drawn up to shadow her face. They both paused, as did the escort and their prisoners, and Thrawn walked forward alone.

Thelea made a concerted effort to control her breathing, be calm, stand to attention. But her eyes were fixed on that blaster, knowing what her father intended, wondering what bel Iblis was thinking, and once again her fingers flexed near the hilt of her saber.

Thrawn stopped before the Rebel general, and Thelea saw the flinch, quickly contained. She couldn't remember a human who hadn't somehow reacted to their first view of those eyes, fear or revulsion or just surprise at the red glow in a face that was, skin color aside, more or less human. Bel Iblis's response was admirably restrained, but then again, perhaps that was fatigue. Emotionally, at least, he had to be exhausted. She glanced beyond her father and saw what looked like a faint sympathy on Pellaeon's face-of course, he'd had to order one of the most humiliating retreats in Imperial history, he would feel _some_ pity to see another commander so reduced. Aleishia was still in shadow, and her mind was a duracrete wall.

Thrawn studied his adversary for a long moment. "General bel Iblis," he said finally, his tone polite and even, no hint of emotion.

"Grand Admiral Thrawn." Thelea thought the accent was Corellian, and there was real exhaustion behind the words. Bel Iblis's hand rested on the grip of the blaster now, his posture suddenly very tense, and Thelea froze. She was calculating, readying herself to grab with the Force-if she could manage that without risking her father being hit by a shot-could she grab a bolt mid-air? She'd never tried, but she was too far to deflect one with her saber.

She could see the calculations in the Rebel general's eyes, the measuring, the internal debate. His fingers tensed, clutched–

And he unhooked the holster, leaving the blaster in it as he held it out, grip first. "Your prisoner, sir," he said, with only the faintest hint of irony.

Her father studied him for a long minute, expression unreadable even to her, let alone a human who'd never seen a Chiss before. Then he calmly took the proffered blaster and casually handed it to Pellaeon without even glancing at the Captain. "Welcome aboard the _Chimaera_ , General bel Iblis," he said calmly, as if he were speaking to any honored visitor. "First of all, you will be relieved, I'm sure, to hear that our prize crews have secured your fleet's surviving vessels, including your _Peregrine._ Her crew will be receiving any necessary first aid as we speak."

"That is good to know," and there was perhaps the slightest trace of sarcasm. "I suppose there's no way I can force you to honor any promises about their safety."

"No, but also no need." If Thrawn was offended, he didn't let it show. "I do not give surrender terms lightly or agree to them without intending to honor my word, provided they were accepted in honor. There is a need for ships and crews, and wasting any purely for spite would not be prudent, even if I were so inclined."

"They're not going to fight the New Republic for you," bel Iblis said, with the kind of desperate conviction a man had when there was nothing to lose.

"They won't have to," Thrawn countered. "I have far greater plans, and more significant enemies, than this wasteful Rebellion. Quelling it is merely the most effective means of advancing my campaign and this uprising will be over well before these ships are repaired." Bel Iblis clearly wanted to dispute that, but thought better. Thrawn just as clearly intended to ignore the doubt. "Allow me to present Captain Pellaeon, of my flagship the _Chimaera_ ," and Pellaeon gave a respectful nod that bel Iblis returned tightly. "And Commander Thelea, who provided your fighter escort in."

Thelea blinked and contained her surprise at being included, but only just. Her nod was not as crisp or correct as Pellaeon's, but it was polite. She wondered if Aleishia's omission was her own choice or Thrawn's, but neither was giving anything away in the Force.

Bel Iblis looked from Thrawn to Thelea and back again, eyes narrowing. "Quite a trick," he finally said, but Thelea had the disconcerting feeling he was putting pieces together and coming to a conclusion one she wasn't sure she wanted some Rebel general making. "Where did you steal that A-wing, Commander?" was all he said aloud, though.

That she didn't have a problem answering, at least not after a quick glance at her father was greeted with the slightest nod. "Endor," she said, not bothering with the honorific titles. "I had to get off that misbegotten moon somehow and the Rebels had left several ships lying around." _Biret. Chawyn. Fayar. The trooper whose name I never even learned._ "Didn't like the kind of victory party your furry little allies were throwing. Since then, I've gotten to like the handling and the hyperdrive. I don't think I'll be giving it back."

Bel Iblis didn't have the grace to look even slightly ashamed at the reference to the cannibalistic primitives. "Unfortunately for us." His eyes narrowed. "A lot of good people died when you fired those missiles into the hangar bay. Medics, technicians, non-combatants."

"How many medics and technicians were on the _Executor_ , General?" she retorted.

"Peace, Commander," and she doubted any of the humans heard the gentle amusement in the Grand Admiral's tone. "There have been enough losses on both sides. General bel Iblis does not need to be reminded any more than we do."

If it was meant to mollify, rather than insult, it didn't appear to work. "Oh, I think I've had sufficient reminders today," the Rebel general said. "No need for you or your . . . people . . . to rub it in." He glanced at Thelea as he said it, and once again she had the very disconcerting feeling he'd made some too-correct deductions. "Is there, Admiral? Or I suppose I should say, _Emperor_ Thrawn. You've as much as won your throne, haven't you?"

There was a startled silence from the Imperials, and even more startled looks from some. Pellaeon looked blind-sided, as if the notion had never occurred to him. Which to be fair it probably had not. Thelea glanced towards Aleishia, still in shadow, and the only sense she caught from her master was one of mild amusement. _First of the First of the Empire of the Hand is rather more cumbersome than Emperor, it's true_ , Aleishia sent, the first she'd spoken to Thelea since the surrender broadcast.

Thelea wished she could find it so funny. Rightful and usurped heir to the Second High Family she had just about accepted, largely because there was not a thing she could do about it and the chances of her ever taking her chair in the Chamber were somewhere between faint and a starclimber flower's chance on Csilla's surface. Which was to say, none at all.

Daughter of the Emperor was not a title she aspired to.

"Grand Admiral will more than suffice," was all Thrawn said. Thelea would have liked a more vehement denial, but she'd take what she could get. "Now, General, come. We have a great deal to discuss." He gestured for bel Iblis to walk with him and turned back towards the lifts.

The Rebel general hesitated, and looked back at the small group still surrounded by stormtroopers. "My officers?"

Thrawn paused. "They will be detained until our discussions are complete. At that time, they will be offered the same choice as you will be. I expect," and his gaze lingered on the young officers, "you will all see things our way." He looked at Pellaeon, who seemed just slightly startled to be noticed again. "My command room, I think, Captain," as if it hadn't been decided upon before their 'guests' were brought aboard. "General, if you would join me?" As he turned, he threw Thelea a quick glance, and she gave him a very short nod in return. Falling into step behind them, she was aware of the troopers and their respectful distance, and of Aleishia ghosting along behind them all. Bel Iblis moved slowly, like an injured man, and her father moderated his pace, as if granting consideration for an elder whose health was not quite what it should be. Given what they'd gone through in the last few hours, it was probably how the General felt.

Not the _Chimaera_ 's crew, though, or her Captain, or even on many levels Master Aleishia. The barely-contained relief, giddiness, and a new sense, one she had never felt on any Imperial ship before–absolute, unquestioning adoration for the man who had made it possible. The Admiral, _their_ Admiral, her father, Grand Admiral Thrawn, Warlord of the Empire and a few slight victories from being leader of the known galaxy. Thelea, still feeling the high of the battle draining away and the aching, stunned shock of– _no, think about that later_ –could barely grasp what her own response was. The only one whose feelings on the matter were more of a mystery than her own was the center of the storm himself, and her father's mind was as much of a mystery to her at this moment as anything in the galaxy. And she couldn't help wondering if he knew how he felt himself.

The meeting was, unsurprisingly, largely one-sided. Thrawn spoke, bel Iblis listened. Thelea tracked the General's emotions as Thrawn coolly laid out the brief history of his campaign in what humans called the Unknown Regions (her father called them that, too, but there was always the faintest irony) and what he had been campaigning against. Bel Iblis's reaction to a proper galactic map, one showing both the boundaries of the New Republic and what it _thought_ was the Empire's current territories and the more than two hundred systems which looked to the Empire of the Hand, was suitably shocked. And, for the first time, she felt his relief–Thrawn had far more than a dwindling quarter of what had been the Empire. Bel Iblis had not lost to the dying remnants of Palpatine's forces, he'd lost to something much larger than anyone had suspected.

His reaction to the footage from battle cams and reconstructions of engagements with the innumerable threats Thrawn's forces had confronted and were still facing went from resigned to tightly-controlled horror. Thelea herself flinched and looked away as the _Defiance_ 's near-fatal encounter with the black ships in the asteroid belt played itself out yet again. "And there are more of these races?" The Corellian didn't sound disbelieving, more as if he wished he could believe he was being lied to.

And intrigued, in spite of himself. Thelea briefly entertained the notion her father's endless machinations had included maneuvering the Rebels into putting the commander most likely to find an unknown threat compelling in command of the most pivotal battle, but she quickly dismissed the thought. There was a list the length of her real arm of people who would, if her father were _that_ omniscient and omnipotent, still be alive and well. One had been added today.

"Many," Thrawn said, leaving the holo frozen on the _Defiance_ tractoring the asteroid into the blurred black-spiked battleship. "These, however, are the most aggressive at the moment. The difficulty has been ascertaining their point of origin within the Unknown Regions. Until recently they favored hit and fade operations and use of surrogate races to fight their battles, after a larger expansion attempt several years ago was . . . thwarted." For the first time his voice changed, just a bit, and Thelea couldn't help looking at him. She was unsurprised to find him looking back, and Master Aleishia studiously avoiding looking at either of them. All, she knew, were thinking of the same thing. _Mother . . . ._

When Thrawn continued, though, his voice was glacially cool again. "Now they appear to be making a determined push along with their allies. The recent collapse of a warlord's control of several systems may have created a vacuum, or they may simply have been preparing and are finally ready for a major offensive."

"And you believe this offensive will be aimed at the Core systems?" bel Iblis sounded skeptical, but it was the skepticism of a professional soldier, not of a defiant enemy.

"Their most recent forays have been in the Kessel sector," Thrawn said. He brought up another tactical holo, and Thelea suppressed another wince as she recognized the _Defiance_ yet again, and her support ships, the Victory-class Destroyers _Endeavour_ and _Resolute._ The emotional twinge was tempered by an odd sort of amusement. Would she ever have guessed Rurik would someday be a Senior Captain in fact if not in official rank, commanding what was really a small battle group? She would, she realized, at least she would have believed it possible long before he did. "Our outer patrols have intercepted weapons shipments being sent to the Outer Rim from somewhere within Wild Space, including technology that could only have come from these dark aliens. There have also been three direct interactions, all with what appear to be scout ships which retreated on confrontation by our vessels, but not without demonstrating hostile intent."

Bel Iblis was watching the holographic replay, intent and almost as if he'd forgotten his circumstances. "I've never seen a configuration like that," he admitted reluctantly. "How do I know this is real?"

"I have no reason to lie to you, General," said Thrawn. If he was offended, and Thelea rather thought he wasn't, it wasn't discernible by his tone. "I do have, however, great reason to see this destructive Rebellion put down once and for all. While the Empire stood, there was reason to think the Core could be defended, and I could attend to matters farther afield, but your so-called New Republic?" The disdain was clearly audible. "You couldn't even manage five years of trying to give thousands of worlds a say in the centralized government before the inevitable implosion. If there weren't so many lives at stake, within the Empire and outside it, I would be tempted to allow it to collapse under its own weight."

The Rebel general, understandably, bristled. "Liberty can be disorderly, but better disorderly freedom than peaceful subjugation."

"Indeed," Thrawn said, and Thelea had the foreboding sense he was warming to his theme. "And when the point of contention is the means of addressing a threat against the lives of billions?"

Bel Iblis didn't' reply for a moment. "How many have died as you've tried to prove your point?"

Thelea felt her father go still, and she saw Pellaeon bristle much as she just had. But before any of them could speak, Aleishia said quietly, "Far fewer than will die if the enemies we've just shown you are allowed to rampage unchecked, General." Thrawn turned a sharp gaze on her, but she was looking at the Corellian general, expression serene but somber. "Mitth-Grand Admiral Thrawn has saved far more beings, most from races you've never even heard of, than have died in these recent actions." She must have seen the raised eyebrow, because she turned to Thrawn and said in a dry tone Thelea knew well, "Just because I don't especially like you, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, does not mean I don't give credit where it's due." Thrawn didn't reply, but one shoulder twitched in what might have been a shrug.

Bel Iblis turned sharply, his gaze fixing on her like a raptor sighting prey. "Forgive me, madame, but who are you that your word carries any weight here?"

Aleishia didn't even look at Thrawn or Thelea. "My name is Aleishia Zei-Venah. I don't know what state the records of the Temple were left in after Palpatine's . . . restructuring, but if they are intact, I suppose I'm still there somewhere, however they filed failures and resignations. I left the Jedi Order a long time ago, with my . . . Master," and she almost managed not to sound pained, " and we explored on our own, traveling into what you call the Unknown Regions. That's where I lost him, to the aliens you just saw. I survived largely because someone found me and protected me. She eventually was lost to the same enemy." She glanced deliberately at Thrawn, who had looked away, pretending interest in the paused holo, and Thelea refused to meet her gaze as well. "Because she would wish it, because I owe her, I have worked with Mitth'raw'nuruodo to fight them."

Bel Iblis stared hard at Aleishia, but she didn't flinch. "Despite his having allied with the Empire? If you were a Jedi, you had to know–"

"What the Emperor and Vader had done?" She gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Of course I knew. And I did the only sensible thing-stayed far away from them. They had no interest in killing long-forgotten padawans. _He_ ," and she gestured sharply at Thrawn, "is not the Emperor or Vader. There are inanimate objects with greater Force-sensitivity, for a start. And instead of Dark Side power games, _his_ Empire is a defensive and stabilizing creation. Or will be, once this civil war finally drags to an end. And I have seen enough of Senates and Councils to have no sentimental attachments. Only a strong leader, with strong leaders serving him, can hold the galaxy together. I'm afraid Thrawn is your last, best, hope to pull it off."

The Rebel general's eyes narrowed. "Even if I believed that, why not simply approach the New Republic? If I can swallow my pride and work with Mon Mothma because the situation demands it," and the look at Thrawn left no confusion about what situation he meant, "if your intentions are so noble there should be nothing shameful in suggesting an alliance rather than a conquest."

Her father's face darkened, and Thelea saw Pellaeon recoil just a bit and Aleishia look as if she were trying very hard not to roll her eyes. "Where there is no dominant voice, there is only chaos. The more voices are raised, the weaker the whole. Look at the Katana fleet–how much sooner would your Rebel fleet have reached it without Councilor Fey'lya and his toadies delaying matters? Not that I am disappointed with the results." Thrawn allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile. "How long did it take for you to be offered command of Coruscsant's ground defenses during our recent visit? Not immediately, I know that. And was the delay merely a matter of confusion? Or personalities?"

Bel Iblis was visibly bristling now. "If you're trying to imply it was personal pride on my part, ego, then very well, guilty. We still managed to expose your little blockade for the charade it was."

"Indeed. At what cost, and after how long?" Thrawn's eyes narrowed. "You feared Mon Mothma becoming another Palpatine. Your so-called Republic's greatest weakness was she is not."

"It's not lost yet," but bel Iblis sounded more angry than sincere at the use of past tense.

"A pity if true, as that will mean further destruction and chaos when the Core must prepare for far greater fights than petty bickering." A human probably would not notice, but Thelea heard a tone in her father's voice that had her fingers instinctively creeping towards her lightsaber. Aleishia had gone very still. "The galaxy _will_ be unified and strengthened and prepared to meet this threat, and any others coming behind it, whether the naive idealists in the Rebellion wish it or not."

"No matter how many die, how many families are shattered, how many worlds have to be ground under the Imperial boot to do it," bel Iblis said. "They'll follow your orders, go on this crusade of conquest for you, or you'll destroy them."

He had the air of a man completely prepared to die for his words, even would welcome it. From the dangerous stillness in Thrawn's posture, he might just get his wish. Something in his words, though, the phrase that had just slightly harder emphasis than the others, caught Thelea's ear. She felt that strange, subtle _push_ , the hardest part of using the Force for her to accept, that intuition without reason that would prompt her one way or another, and it was focusing her attention on one part of what the Rebel general had said.

_Families._

"She was my mother." She _felt_ Aleishia and Thrawn staring hard, and flicked her fingers low near her side, a signal to stay out of it. Her own gaze she kept on bel Iblis, who seemed to have forgotten she was there. "The one who saved Master Aleishia, and who died stopping the dark ones the last time they tried to rise," she clarified, and she could see the realization dawning in the Rebel's eyes even as her own senses were telling her this was right. "She was my mother."

Bel Iblis, true politician that he was, didn't show any serious reaction. Instead, nodding slowly, he looked deliberately from Thelea to Thrawn. "Your wife."

It wasn't a question. Thrawn answered anyway. "Yes. But do not mistake me. This is not a personal vendetta, General. I merely will not permit more of my people to suffer and die and her sacrifice to be wasted. It should never have been made in the first place. Our race abrogated its responsibility to defend our region of space. With the might of a reunified Empire and a united Core, I will correct that error."

"And what race _is_ that?" If bel Iblis was really hoping for an answer, he was disappointed. Thelea didn't need the warning look from her father to know to keep her mouth shut. "I suppose that's not surprising," the Rebel continued. He looked at the paused holo again, and the blurred outlines of the dark ships. "What is it you're proposing here? You meant what you said about not enslaving the Mon Cal and other aliens in the crews?"

Thelea couldn't help the snort of laughter, and she could have sworn Master Aleishia and Pellaeon were stifling similar responses. Thrawn gave her a pointedly disapproving look, but she ignored it. "General," she said, doing her best not to giggle, "is 'aliens' really the correct word to use?"

The thought didn't even seem to have occurred to him, but when he grasped her meaning, she could have sworn bel Iblis had to stop himself from laughing, too. "You have me there, Commander. But the question stands."

"I did not spend the better part of ten years freeing systems from enslavement to a criminal warlord only to re-institute the Emperor's . . . less-well-considered policies elsewhere in the galaxy," Thrawn said. "In any case, using prisoners who are trained and competent crews of capital ships as slave labor is a waste of resources we cannot afford. Your fleet will need extensive repairs but when it is spaceworthy, I will expect it to serve in the coming campaigns in roles for which the ships and crews are best suited. I have no desire to waste useful personnel simply because their initial loyalty was . . . misplaced. There would need to be Imperial officers whose loyalty was beyond question in positions of command to start, but in the long term, I see no reason the crews could not be fully integrated into the fleet."

Bel Iblis was clearly thinking about this, and Thelea found herself holding her breath again. "If we were to cooperate, what role do you envision for me? I'm not going to persuade or coerce my people into agreeing."

"Nor would I expect you to." Even without gloating, Thrawn always had that little tone to his voice when he knew he'd won. "I would hope you'd consider supervising the refit of your fleet. Under Imperial supervision, of course, and not at a shipyard as close to the current frontier as Bilbringi. Ord Trasi, I think, will be better equipped in any case. By the time the ships are repaired, matters in the Core will, I hope, be settled enough to begin planning the campaign against the dark ones."

"That quickly?" bel Iblis said, once again looking at the display. "Well . . . you probably can guess, since Bilbringi, there are some who think we should have already begun negotiating for peace."

"I can assure you, General," Thrawn said, and for once, there was something just faintly reassuring about his smile, "I wholeheartedly agree with them."

Thrawn left the matter of escorting bel Iblis to meet with his crew and to begin the process of a careful, supervised transfer back to the Rebel ships to Pellaeon, and had not had to request Aleishia follow them. If possible, it might even be wise to let the Jedi speak to the Rebels. They might well find her more believable than Imperial officers. And, of course, being a Jedi, she had other ways to reassure them, provided he kept the ysalamiri well away from the conversation.

He settled into his command chair as they left, deactivating the tactical recording, and paused. There was, at the moment, battle damage reports to review, the final matter of Coruscant to think about, and the latest reports from Niauan and the border fleet. Pulling the backup fleet into the Core campaign had left the Empire of the Hand less defended than he liked, given the circumstances, and the latest report from the _Defiance_ suggested that was not a sustainable situation.

And it had cost him the _Admonitor_. And one of the only people whom he could truly have called a friend.

Voss Parck. Another name on a list that he didn't care to examine. But he had to.

It took a moment to make additions to the programmed display. When he called it up, there was a new set of artwork in the holographic gallery. The flats and sculps were fairly conventional late-Republic (only a certain, human-centric style, of course) and early Empire, none too daring a choice, but just avant-garde enough with a few artists who had not been Core humans to give insight into how a son of the family which had collected it was willing to gamble his entire career on a strange alien who'd sneaked aboard his Victory-class Destroyer so many years ago. He wondered if Parck still had any family on Coruscant, or somewhere on worlds that had remained loyal to the Empire. He did not make a habit of letters of condolence-it was something best left to immediate superiors–but then, he _was_ Parck's immediate superior

Had been. Past tense.

Thrawn closed his eyes. Loyal, determined Parck, who had never from that first encounter looked at Thrawn as anything but a commander worth believing in. Who'd seen Thrawn's vision for the galaxy and accepted it as is own, even following him to the Unknown Regions and joining a fight that until then had never been the humans' war. One of the few Thrawn could trust, no matter the mission. Who'd accepted the alien standards imposed on the Imperial crews, embraced them, learned them almost as well as a true Chiss warrior.

And he'd died just like one of those warriors. The jump had been flawless, _Admonitor_ only completing her reversion to realspace after she'd reached the _Lusankya_ 's position, ripping apart the larger vessel like a slug from a thrower tearing through flesh. A short-range precision jump any Ascendancy officer would have been proud of. He'd even managed to save his crew first, before saving his Admiral one final time.

A true warrior. Like Thrass. Like Lisetha.

And dead, just like them.

He looked from the new artwork in his display to the oldest. Sculps from the Defense Force base where his brother had commanded their sector. Small pieces he remembered from the Eighth Family's home. And farthest along . . . the spacescapes, the scrolls, the flats, the organic sculp meant to be tactile but now only a holo. Lisetha's choices, or the pieces of her Family's she'd favored when the decision was hers. All a memorial now, the only one he had for any of them. Now Parck joined them. Another name reduced to his holographic graveyard.

Parck. _My right hand in so many ways._ Thrass. _My brother, my closest ally, my conscience._ Lisetha. _Lisetha! My Lisetha . . . ._ It was absurd how even the oldest wounds never healed. Every new loss simply tore them open again. And each a fresh reminder how much the others would be a comfort. When he thought he would lose his mind when he lost his wife, it was his brother who dragged him back towards sanity. And then Thrass was ripped away, without even the satisfaction of knowing how and _why_. And now Parck. Who was next?

"Is there really time for this now, _Va'ti_?"

He turned sharply, eyes narrowing in the gloom. "I thought you'd gone with the others."

"You neglected to give me a task," Thelea said. His daughter picked her way around the holos, the same habit he'd noted Pellaeon had of treating the images of the art as if they were solid. "So I assigned myself one." She stopped before the command chair. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him, Father. But I'm not sorry he saved you."

"I am." He didn't think before he spoke. "I would never have asked anyone to do what he did. Not Parck. Not anyone."

"I know." Thelea didn't move. "So did he. That's one reason he did it. Why any of us would do it." He looked up, the angry denial dying on his lips as he saw her expression. "And don't tell me not to. You're everything to this fight. Without you we lose, and _don't_ tell me some clone backup or body-double stunt would be an adequate substitution. We wouldn't even have had the chance to try it today. Everything would have died with you."

"You would have carried on. Parck and Niriz–"

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo, if you won't listen to me as your daughter or your subordinate then at least hear me as the rightful lady of the Second Family and grant me the courtesy of not thinking I'm an idiot!"

He wasn't sure which startled him the most: hearing his fullname from his daughter's mouth, instead of 'Father' or 'Papa' or even 'Admiral', the sudden switch to the most formal high grammar in that grating High Family accent, or just how much she sounded like her mother in a full-blown temper. "I do not think you're an idiot," he said, trying to keep his own voice level.

"You're acting like I am one." She was glaring, her lips set in a thin line, and abruptly he realized where he knew that stubborn set of her jaw and grim determination from. _Another apology I owe Parck, and Thrass, and Lisetha, and Aleishia, and everyone else who's ever seen us both,_ he thought absently. _She does take after me, after all._ "I can't do what you do. Parck couldn't. Niriz, Force love him, certainly couldn't. Pellaeon . . . ." She paused, and seemed to be listening to something far away. "Well, someday, maybe, but not today. You're our last, best, hope for victory and safety and _none_ of us are going to let you throw your life away if we can stop it. Give us all credit for knowing that. Give Parck the honor he deserves."

She knelt down so she was eye level, and held out her hands, palms up, and he clasped her wrists in an automatic acceptance of the condolence gesture. "We'll all grieve, _Va'ti._ But don't forget he knew the stakes as well as you did, and he knew what he was doing. It wasn't a wasted sacrifice. When the rest of us saw that . . . we couldn't do any less. Even Dorja threw _Relentless_ into the thick of it to protect you. Parck won the victory. Celebrate that, and then look forward so we can finish this. Like they would all want us to."

Thrawn knew his smile had a wry edge, but he also knew Thelea wouldn't take it as an insult. "When did my little daughter become a philosopher?"

"When you handed me off to a Jedi, like Mother would have wanted," she said drily. "If you wanted a tactician, you should have kept me by you, though I still have no idea what all this," and the gesture encompassed the holographic gallery, "really tells you."

"This one is only memories," Thrawn said, rising and walking to the oldest artwork. "Sometimes it helps me to consider what those who've gone would do or advise me." He gestured to one of the starscapes from the Defense Force base. "I can practically hear your Uncle Thrass, asking me 'What have you done _now_ , little brother?'" He looked farther down. "Not all my study of art is for purely analytic reasons."

Thelea nodded, studying the holos thoughtfully. "You sent Parck to ask me about artwork once," she said. "I hope I didn't disappoint."

It took him a moment to remember, and then he smiled. " _The Vision of Palpatine_ ," he said. "I suppose you've figured out by now that Parck had his comlink on so I could listen." The only response of was a faint snort he was reasonably sure meant yes. "Your analysis, while I'm sure not what the curator of the Emperor's collection would have written, struck me as exceptionally perceptive. He didn't even have to lead you to any conclusions."

"I remember being a little surprised that I didn't get in trouble for that conversation," she said, absently wandering down the display. "Strange how many of our people's artwork is starscapes"

"We look out, but we so rarely see what's truly there." His gaze settled on a swirling, glittering Bibracti painting of auroras. "Your mother did, though."

Thelea followed his gaze, and her brow furrowed. "I remember this one," she said softly, stepping closer, her hand half-raised as if she could touch the insubstantial canvas. "Don't I? I remember seeing this."

The hand, reaching for the glittering swirl of color, stirred a distant memory, of a tiny arm clinging to him while a tiny hand groped to touch the sparkling pigments, and he had gently pulled it away, but smiled as he did so she knew he was not angry, even understood the impulse. "A Vercastorannix," was all he said aloud. "One of the greatest of the Bibracti abstract painters. This was a smaller but exquisite example of his work. You saw it when your mother brought you to the base where I was stationed. It had been a gift from her, in the first days of our marriage negotiations."

Thelea's brows arched delicately "The first days? She must have been very impressed with you." The sideways smile she gave him had a ghost of her mother, too. "And you claimed it was a political match."

"It was." He studied her as she examined the art, and felt a faint pang that her appreciation seemed more akin to her mother's aesthetic appreciation than his analytical variety. "That does not mean we weren't . . . eminently suited to each other."

"Careful, Father." He looked at her quizzically, and she smiled. "That's two facts about Mother in the space of three months. If you don't watch yourself, you'll be telling me all sorts of things, like her favorite colors and whether she had any childhood pets."

"Perhaps I should speak of her more," Thrawn said, and was secretly pleased at the startled look on his daughter's face. "Soon we'll be facing the ones who took her again." The thread of conversation reminded him. "What prompted you to tell bel Iblis about her?"

Thelea shrugged, her gaze turning back to the Vercastorannix. "The Force," she said, maddeningly. "I suspect it worked because he lost his family. Telling him forced him to realize it is not only his kind who've lost someone. And maybe I feel for him. His whole family was killed. I still have you, provided you stop arguing when the rest of us want to defend you."

"That particular appeal had not occurred to me." It bothered him, as he looked at the artwork around him, that it had not. "And I cannot promise to keep myself safe. Any more, I think, than you would promise the same in return."

Thelea smiled, just a little, discipline clearly suppressing a laugh. "I'm a Jedi, or so Master Aleishia says. I don't think I could hold myself to it even if I did promise."

"So I won't attempt to make you." He stepped back to the command chair, and revised the display. Most of the paintings were of the lithe, fur-colored natives of the Corellian world Selonia, but he saw Thelea flinch at the centerpiece, an eerily accurate rendering of the late Emperor seated on a throne of skeletons. "Since you're seeking occupation, and I neglected to give you one, I do have a task in mind. The approach to Coruscant is not going to be a straightforward question of military might, no matter how I decide to pursue it. There are several prisoners in detention from the battle of Bilbringi. There's one in particular I would like you to familiarize yourself with." He saw the dubious look, but she joined him and listened as his spoke about Corellia and Chassu's art, and not for the first time, Thrawn wondered just what sort of tactician she might have made if he'd kept her with him, after all.

Interlude

_Somewhere on the frontier between Minbari space and the former Vorlon Empire, seventeen years after the Earth-Minbari War, shortly after the conclusion of the Telepath Crisis._

White Star 91 had been on station for three days, scanning for any intruders into the void that had once been the Vorlon's territory and was now interdicted by order of the Interstellar Alliance when they picked up something that should not have existed:

A Vorlon signal, coming from something near the border.

Ranger Nireal, born a Warrior of the Star-Riders clan and now sworn to the service of the One, faced a dilemma. By the time word reached ISA headquarters on Minbar and a response was received, the signal might have been lost. And it was possible it was only raiders or looters, trying to lure unsuspecting scavengers in with a false signal. On the other hand, it was also possible there was a lost Vorlon artifact, transmitting a signal that the White Star's part-Vorlon systems recognized. And his mission did permit him to enter the former Vorlon territory in pursuit of anomalies.

This certainly counted. Once they had located the source, the confusion was deepened, not resolved.

"A life pod, I think," said his fellow Ranger, the human Cowan. "Or something similar. Whatever it is, it's definitely Vorlon. Do we bring it aboard?"

Nireal didn't answer immediately. The tiny craft, barely big enough for a single being, certainly _looked_ Vorlon, and the ship's systems identified it as Vorlon, but there were no longer any Vorlons to have sent it. They, along with all the First Ones, had gone beyond the Rim at Coriana VI. Ships attempting to enter their space in search of salvage often disappeared and were never found. The sensors did show life signs, not readily recognized, but some sort of being seemed to be inside it. "I do not believe we can _not_ retrieve it," he finally said. "If it is an artifact, it is something that the Alliance, President Sheridan, and _Entil'zha_ should see. If there is a being aboard, it may require assistance."

"Or may have been trying to steal the pod," Cowan said. "In which case if nothing else we can ask how they did it."

Smaller than the White Star's own shuttle, the pod made no attempt to resist capture and was easily tractored into the bay. Nireal ordered the crew out of the docking bay while he and Cowan approached it, though he had seen Minbari discipline warring with immense curiosity when they obeyed. The little pod's skin was mottled and moving as he approached, but it had the gray tinge and sluggish swirls of color of a dying thing. As he came within nine meters, a ripple passed over the skin and he had the oddest sense of watching something die. But a hatch in the side irised open as it did, and a figure stumbled out, legs buckling and wobbling as if stiff from long disuse.

"My God," Cowan murmured, and while he didn't blaspheme aloud Nireal had to admit the first thought to cross his mind was _In Valen's name . . . ._

The figure was humanoid, but no race he had ever seen. A female, most probably, with long black hair tied back in a heavy braid. She wore a plain black jumpsuit of a type he had not seen before, with no insignia, and he saw nothing that read to his trained eye as a weapon. She was blinking, or at least he thought she was, and she wavered uncertainly as if gauging whether she were about to be attacked.

Recovering his composure, Nireal stepped forward. "I am Anla'shok Nireal of Minbar," he said, pressing his palms together in a gesture of greeting. "This is Ranger Cowan. You have come from Vorlon space?"

The strange alien looked from him to Cowan and back again, and then her mouth opened–

And she said something in a fluid, lilting language he had never heard before in his life.

He glanced at Cowan, who shrugged slightly. "I am afraid I don't understand," he said. "Do you speak any Earth dialect? Minbari?"

She looked taken aback at first. She shook her head in what he hoped was a universal gesture for the negative, and spoke again. He could tell the language was different, but it was no more intelligible than the first attempt. "I'm afraid I don't understand you."

"Maybe Interlac?" Corwan suggested. "Though I've never seen a race that looks anything like her from the old League."

"I do not believe it will help." He was trying not to stare, but it was difficult. "Such an unusual skin coloration would seem readily identifiable but I do not recall encountering any similar race, either."

"With those eyes the part you think would stand out is her skin?" Cowan seemed to be torn between not staring and being unable to avert his eyes.

"I expect among her own people, they are quite normal." Nireal stepped closer to their strange visitor, and noted how she recoiled not in fear but as if she were poised to strike or flee as the situation dictated. Carefully, slowly, he raised his hand, and pressed it to his chest. "Nireal," he said, and tapped his chest. "Nireal." He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw dawning comprehension on her features. "Cowan," he sadid, pointing to his fellow Ranger.

She seemed to be trying to process this, and then she tapped her own chest and said another string of syllables that he couldn't follow. Something of his confusion must have registered, though.

"Lisetha," she said, once again tapping her chest.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We'll be leaving the Chimaera and crowd for a bit since there's been three straight chapters there. And yes, surprise (or not, really, there should have been enough hints in Turning Point and Command Decisions), Lisetha is, as TV Tropes puts it, Not Quite Dead. However, the Vorlons, in attempting to be helpful, were not as helpful as they might have been. (That's Vorlons for you.) And of course, they're gone, leaving the Interstellar Alliance to clean up another of their messes. So we'll leave her to her problems for a while and return to the Defiance and Rurik's current issue–what do you do with an old friend who's now your prisoner? Especially when some other old 'friends' show up to crash the party. Plus, we really do need to check in with the New Republic soon. Oh, and to maintain balance in the Force, an OC is next for the chop. Reading "Specters and Visions" will give you a hint. Or two. There's more to come.

  


 

Detention cells hadn't been built with roommates in mind. It was less a matter of bargaining to see who got the bunk, if you could call the cold, solid slab of plassteel a bunk, than over who _had_ to sit or lie on it. Giriad wasn't sure which was worse, feeling every bone in his body poking him no matter which way he turned, or sitting on the durasteel deck plates while any body heat he might have had leached out. There was, of course, no way to get water, and so far no food, even the worst kind of ration bars, had been forthcoming.

On the other hand, so far there was no sign of interrogation droids, either.

"So." Dag had the bunk for the moment. "This Captain Caelin was your wingman."

"He'd probably say I was _his_ wingman," Giriad said. "If he was still anything like the Rurik I remember, anyway."

"And your wingleader," and Dag still sounded slightly boggled, "was Grand Admiral Thrawn's daughter."

"That's what he said." On the one hand, it was incredible. He'd _seen_ Thelea meet Thrawn, back when the latter was only a Vice Admiral, and nothing about their brief interaction had suggested she even knew him. Thelea had always said she was, she thought, an orphan. Of course that didn't mean Thrawn hadn't just opted not to tell her, but Giriad suspected speculating about reasons would only get him into more trouble. He had plenty of that already. "I doubt it matters now. I'm sure the Grand Admiral wouldn't be thrilled that both her wingmen lived and she . . . didn't."

"I don't know, he promoted the first one pretty far." Dag sighed. "Not that it's helping us much now. I almost wish they'd get on with it. The waiting is almost worse than the being interrogated."

"You know this cell is probably bugged, right?" Gir knew the question was academic. He knew about Imperial detention cells, he'd just never expected to find himself in one. At least never seriously expected it, though there had been times it seemed possible, especially when the three of them had been unintentionally AWOL from the _Executor_. Then it had seemed like the preferable option given the alternative was Lord Vader punishing them in his own infamous manner. Now . . . now he had never expected it to be Rurik throwing him in a cell and likely choosing between torture and simple execution as the penalty. "Keep talking like that and they'll make your wish come true."

The hiss of the cell door opening made _him_ wish he'd kept his mouth shut. But there was no ISB agent and no hum of an interrogator droid, only the clack of stormtrooper boots on deck plates and two troopers entered the cell. "Prisoner Quoris, stand up," one said in the filtered male voice they all seemed to have. Strange how he'd never noticed when he was an Imperial how they all sounded alike.

One thing he hadn't forgotten was that when a stormtrooper ordered you to do something it was better to cooperate now and save yourself the bruises later. "Just me?" he said, risking the question as one trooper pulled his hands forward and snapped on the binders.

"The Captain wants to see you." The troopers turned him and he tried to walk on his own, not so much to preserve his dignity but because he suspected if he tripped, they'd let him hit the floor. "You, Prisoner Daggair, remain seated." Dag, who'd been shifting his weight as if he was thinking about rising in protest, sank back down, giving Gir a helpless shrug. Gir grimaced in return, and mouthed 'no hard feelings' before the troopers pushed him none-too-gently up the steps and the door slid shut behind them.

To his surprise, they weren't taking him to an interrogation cell or someplace less unpleasant but still appropriate for a prisoner. His memory of a Destroyer's layout was still good enough he could tell he was being taken upwards in the general direction of the conning tower. Instead of the bridge, though, he was shunted aside to a smaller chamber that held a small version of an admiral's command chair, a work desk, and tactical displays showing readouts from the various bridge stations. He had never been in a captain's ready room before (though he _had_ been in Lord Vader's, not an experience he was ever likely to forget) and he supposed he wasn't surprised by how coldly impersonal it was. Imperial ships weren't known for extensive personalization or homelike atmospheres.

It still surprised him to find Rurik Caelin at the center of this cold, sterile world, though. Rurik was seated at the desk, datapad to one side and the display screens lit. Physically, he hadn't changed that Gir could see–still that dark hair, pale blue eyes, maybe a few lines in his face that hadn't been there, same build, short like most pilots, but not frail. But there was a bizarre dissonance seeing him in the officer's olive-gray drab and it was almost unbelievable, seeing the six red and blue squares over his heart. His expression was not one Gir remembered seeing before, either. He didn't remember Rurik with a slight furrow to his brow, or a tightness born from worry and stress pinching the corners of his mouth.

He looked up as the troopers marched Gir into the room, and the lines got deeper. He stared at Gir for a long moment, then glanced at his escort. "Remove those binders." Apparently Captain Caelin didn't get second-guessed, even with strange orders, as the restraints were removed. "That will be all, troopers. I'll send for an escort when I'm finished." They didn't question that order, either, even though it was even more non-standard procedure. Instead, both turned on their heels and clacked away with that distinctive rattle of plassteel, leaving Giriad alone with someone he hoped, desperately, was still a friend.

Rurik set down his datapad, and stared at Gir again. Finally, he sighed and slumped a bit in his chair. "What am I going to do with you, Gir? And don't say let you go, because even if I wanted to, I can't do that."

"Well, so much for my first suggestion." He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, feeling even more awkwardly out of place in his khaki Rebel uniform. _New Republic_ , he chided himself sharply, _don't start slipping into their terms._ "What are your orders about prisoners, Captain? Rumor is the Grand Admiral's taking them these days."

"Officially, when ships and crews can be taken alive, we are to do so, and hold those crews until we receive further orders. Your ships and equipment are to be given over for refitting for Imperial use. So far, that's all."

_Refitting_ . . . . "You haven't had Deesix wiped, have you?" It came out without his thinking, but Gir felt a surge of guilt that he hadn't given any thought to the droid.

"Deesix? Who–oh, your astromech," and he wasn't sure if that was indifference or disgust in Rurik's voice. It hurt that he had to wonder. "It's powered down in storage until we receive orders about the fighter. I know most of your fighters need them for navigation and we don't exactly have them lying around to spare. Care to give me a reason I shouldn't order it memory wiped and reprogrammed?"

Gir felt a rising surge of anger and only just quashed it. " _He_ is a member of my squadron, just like Dag. I don't want him mind wiped and sold into slavery."

Rurik stared at him for a moment. "It's just a droid. Not a person, just a thing."

"Maybe to you, but he's got a personality and I've been flying with him as long as I flew with you and Thelea," and it was out before he could stop himself. "I'd really rather not lose anyone else."

Rurik's expression was suddenly very fixed. He looked away, and seemed to be arguing with himself, then said, "For now we can stay with the restraining bolt. I can't promise anything once the report goes in and orders come back about all three of you. But I'll do what I can. I guess I know how that feels, although . . . damn it, Gir, why'd you have to go and defect? What were you _thinking_?"

The sudden outburst, unexpected and so much more like the Rurik he remembered, seem to jar something loose in his own head. "I was thinking that they rescued me, even though the could have left me to die. You know what we-what the Empire would have done to the EVA Rebel pilots!" _Don't slip! Them, not us. You, not we. Republic, not Rebellion._ "And maybe I was thinking that if the Emperor was dead, did it really matter what we called the people in charge of the galaxy? Especially if those things we ran into on Telamara came back." Rurik gave him a side-eyed look and glanced away. Gir felt slightly sick. "They're not really back."

"I don't think they were ever away," Rurik said. "I wish I could believe it was a fluke, but there's something in Wild Space, Gir, and we've been trying to get one step ahead of where it's poking at the Rim. That would have been a lot easier if we weren't having to redeploy to deal with Rebel incursions and Rebel-incited uprisings and assassinations. Especially when there's no rhyme or reason to those–how can you stand it? Your so-called Senate can't agree on anything and I swear half your officers must be appointed because they're some politician's favorite grandchild."

"I never said I liked the politicians," and it sounded weak even to his ears. "And that's not true. There are plenty of good officers. I've served under quite a few. And I've never had to worry about being summarily executed, which was kind of hard to get used to after serving on the _Executor._ "

"Good at being nice, maybe, but not very good at winning wars lately." Rurik looked down at the datapad on his desk again. "We just received a priority all-ships transmission from the main battle fleet at Yag'Dhul. The _Chimaera_ and her battle group engaged a Rebel fleet being commanded by General bel Iblis there."

That had been the assault they'd been supporting as a distraction. Something about the look on Rurik's face made Gir's stomach clench. "Good news?"

"Yes, though I guess you wouldn't think so any more." Rurik sounded vaguely disappointed at the thought. "The Admiral ambushed your ambush. The Rebel fleet was broken, General bel Iblis has been taken prisoner, and we now hold the junction of the primary Core trade routes. It seems the only major loss was two Star Destroyers. Which is unfortunate, but all the Rebel ships suffered damage, and a captured Super Star Destroyer they attempted to deploy was destroyed as well. Another shame, as we could have used an _Executor-_ class ship. But if it prompted bel Iblis to give up, I suppose it was worth it."

Gir wondered if something had happened with the ship's grav plates, because he suddenly felt ten times heaver. "Bel Iblis surrendered? I don't believe it."

"I haven't read the detailed report, but I gather the alternative was sit there while the main fleet reduced his ships to scrap. Believe it or not, the Admiral is not interested in destroying Rebels for its own sake. He's no Tarkin. He wants this rebellion over and frankly, I'm ready for that, too, because then the main fleet can stop dithering and get out here. We need every ship we can build, beg, borrow or steal. Frankly the Unknowns are not a great deal of help even when we do cross into their sectors. I don't trust the Rebels to run a galaxy, but at least I know their crews understand Basic."

"The whats?" Giriad was still trying to process the idea that bel Iblis had failed. Had _surrendered._ The fleet at Yag'Dhul was the best of what they had left after the debacle at Bilbringi. _Home One_ in Imperial hands . . . and he thought of something else, with a nagging sense of guilt that it was only third or fourth on this list. With the two biggest trade routes now at the mercy of the Imperial fleet, his family, not just Fi and Binda and Lea on Coruscant but his parents and aunts and uncles and cousins on Asthera, were cut off from any travel or supplies that the Empire decided wouldn't be allowed through. "What's your Admiral going to do now?"

Something dark flickered across Rurik's features, and his eyes narrowed. He only said, "That is going to depend on your New Republic's leaders. If they have half a brain amongst them, they'll sue for peace."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," Gir retorted, before realizing that could be interpreted more than one way. "You can say what you want about the Alliance's leaders, but they didn't spend years fighting the Emperor and Vader to roll over for a Grand Admiral now. They took down two Death Stars–they're not going to give up."

"Then they're suicidal," Rurik said flatly. "A Death Star is one giant construction, the Emperor was surrounded by corrupt, self-serving politicians, and Vader was terrifying, but he was only one man. We were fighting the wrong war, Gir, that was the problem. The Admiral's fighting a real war, and your New Republic can't beat him. Why keep trying?"

"Because . . . because . . . ." It had been five years of listening to stories of things the Empire had done, enslavement, arrests, Rebel agents tortured or hunted down like animals, riots quelled with live blaster fire . . . and then there was the recent campaign. He'd been on Coruscant when the blockade went up, and if he'd been nearly paralyzed with fear at the notion one of those cloaked asteroids would come down on Fi and the girls, Fi had done her best not to show how terrified she was every time his squadron had gone up. For the first time since the Alliance had taken Coruscant, maybe even for the first time since Endor, the outcome seemed in doubt. "Does the galaxy need another Emperor?"

"Does the galaxy need another Senate that can't do anything but argue?" Rurik shot back, then he sighed. "Honestly, after spending the last ten months mostly in Wild Space and the borders, I'm not sure the Admiral really wants to be emperor of anything. At least not the way Palpatine was. He just wants everything to run in order, to be ready, and the New Republic can't manage that. As long as people don't make trouble, will it really matter on most worlds who's in charge somewhere at the top? Except when there's an emergency, and then who has time to argue?"

"So we'll be back to governors running systems with an iron fist and slave labor?" Gir wished there were a chair he could slouch into, both as a change from the rock-hard detention bunk and floor and because he _felt_ unreasonably like a sulky teenager arguing with a parent.

Rurik's ice-blue eyes went flat. "The Empire doesn't deal in slaves any more. Look, I know after five years of Rebel . . . propaganda . . ." and Gir wondered what that was a last-minute substitution for, suspecting he wouldn't like the answer "you probably don't believe that, or anything I say. But the sooner you do, the easier it will be for you. We're going to win, at least this campaign. After that, the Admiral may be forgiving, but he's got his limits. I'm not saying you'll be safe, none of us are in this part of the galaxy, but it'll be easier for you if you just give in and go along."

"What did it take for you to give in?" Gir demanded. "This command? I don't remember you being desperate for rank."

Instead of anger, he saw a moment of doubt in Rurik's expression, and then the temper seemed to drain away. "Actually, I tried to refuse permanent promotion. I only wound up captain in the first place because everyone who outranked me was dead or too terrified to take over. I was happy to keep trying to get myself killed in starfighter command, even though I obviously didn't have a knack for that."

"Get yourself killed?" In spite of himself, Gir felt a shiver at the blunt honesty in the words. "Why–"

"Because I lost my squadron, my ship, my wingman," and Gir cringed at the pointed look, even as another part of him felt a strange kind of happiness that Rurik _had_ been sorry to think he was dead, "and the person who meant . . . who meant more to me than anyone else in the galaxy, only I was too stupid and slow to realize that until it was too late. Dying seemed like the easiest way out, only I wasn't very good at it."

Gir nodded slowly, then asked, because he had to know. "Someone-another prisoner at Endor–said you were screaming The-her name on an open channel." Rurik looked away, but he gave a single, jaw-clenched nod. "What happened to her?"

There was a long, empty silence. "We were . . . well, at first, we just wanted to make sure we got revenge for you." There was a faint ironic twist to his lips. "We got separated when the Death Star fired on a Rebel cruiser. I was closer in to the explosion and I think she must have been distracted, trying to find me. She was out at the edge, she'd been chasing an X-wing almost to the shield. I never saw the hit, but I think it was an ion blast. She was so close to the shield, there was no chance she could recover before she hit." Rurik sounded cold, clinical, and he was grasping the arms of his chair until his knuckles showed white. "I couldn't believe she was gone. I just went numb, and it's never really stopped. I only took over _Defiance_ temporarily because why should thirty thousand other people die because I can't stand living? Only the Admiral wasn't interested in letting me quit once the crisis ended."

"Even though . . . is that when he told you? That he's her . . . ."

"Father?" Rurik was looking away again. "He never even had to say it. At the time, I thought he didn't believe that I was anything but an Imp officer with a taste for alien girls, but in retrospect, I think he was just goading me. He wanted to see how sincere I was and what I'd do when he pushed me. I guess he figured if after almost five years I was still grieving, maybe I meant it. Maybe if I could be loyal that long when there was no hope, I wouldn't bail on the _Defiance_ and her crew, either. And maybe he knows what it feels like, and figures if he can go on for longer than I've been alive, I'll learn to manage." One side of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "His so-very-subtle way of saying it was to show me a holo of Thelea's mother. If you're wondering, she was stunning."

"Well, I guess Thelea _was_ pretty for an alien, now I think about it." Gir saw the expression, but didn't recant. "She was my C.O.–I was too scared of her half the time to even notice! Besides . . . that kind of seemed like your territory after a while."

Rurik sighed, and now his smile looked like a ghost of the one Gir remembered. "You tried to call me on that once. I owe you an apology. You were right."

"It wasn't really any of my business." Gir wondered if the situation could get any more surreal. "Not like it matters now, I guess."

"I suppose not." Rurik sighed. "And it doesn't help the current situation. By standing order, by regs, I have to lock you up. I don't want to do it, but I don't know there's any way around it unless you can offer a very good explanation for your desertion and re-enlist." That almost sounded hopeful.

Which made it even harder to give the answer he had to. "I can't do that. My family, my home, is on Coruscant. Fi won't even know if I'm alive or dead. I can't just swap sides again, even if it means I'm sticking with the losing one." He braced himself. "I understand if that means you have to throw me in detention. I just hope the Grand Admiral really does mean as well as you think, if you do."

Rurik shrugged. "I don't know if he means _well_ , if what you mean is he'll leave your New Republic to do whatever they please. I don't think he wants to kill you all and rule everyone with an iron fist for the fun of it, though. And I don't think he'll care if I treat you more like a . . . temporary, highly restricted guest than a prisoner." He was tapping keys on the data pad. "I can put you in secure quarters. You won't be permitted comm access or to wander the ship, but it would be more comfortable than a bunk in detention."

"What about Dag?" Hastily he clarified "Lieutenant Daggair, my gunner. I'd rather we weren't separated, if you can do that."

Rurik looked skeptical for a moment, then sighed, tapping more keys. "Fine. Just don't take advantage, and don't ask about the astromech. Remember, if you cause trouble, I can't pretend I don't know you're both deserters." He paused, frowning. "Jim Daggair? His first name is Jim? What does that even mean?"

"It's what?" Gir fought the urge to grab the datapad, but it didn't seem like a good idea. "He's never said what his name was, just that it's too Outer-Rim to not be embarrassing. What kind of name is Jim?"

He made the mistake of catching Rurik's eye, and he saw the twitching at the corner of his lips. That set off the fluttering giggle that was already threatening to turn into full-fledged laughter, and did. To his surprise and relief, Rurik fought a moment longer and then started laughing himself. For a moment they both laughed too hard to talk and Gir honestly couldn't remember the last time that had happened.

Finally, Rurik drew in a deep, steadying breath. "Oh, Gir, circumstances aside, I'm glad you're alive."

"Likewise." Gir sighed. "I wish circumstances were different, though. And . . . that Thelea were here, too."

Rurik's smile faded, but his eyes didn't have that flinty edge they'd had before. "Me, too. More than I can say. But she's not, so all I can do is keep going like she'd want me to. Maybe once the Admiral has Imperial Center back under control, you'll be able to join us again officially. It would be nice to have an old friend from . . . before."

"Maybe." Gir felt the humor drain away. "He's not going to bombard Coruscant, is he?"

"Far be it from me to guess what the Admiral plans to do, but for what it's worth, I don't think he's interested in bombarding the planet. If he wanted to do that, he could have done it already." Rurik shrugged. "I expect he'll issue some sort of surrender demand and wait to see what they say."

And when the Inner Council refused it, the Admiral would take the capital world by force. With Fiolla and the girls trapped on the planet, not knowing he was alive and completely helpless. Unless he could somehow use Rurik's trusting treatment as a chance, get to the shuttles or even their own fighter and–

And be caught in the tractor beams in a heartbeat, if the gunners didn't just blow him out of the sky first. Never mind that before they did, his last act would be betraying someone whom he'd mourned as dead for nearly six years, and who was clearly trying hard not to consider Gir himself as a traitor. It was an impossible position.

"I just hope everyone sees sense before it's too late," was all he said aloud.

"I think we mean different kinds of 'too late,' but for what it's worth, I agree with you," Rurik replied. "I'm sorry I can't just send you back to your family. I'm sorry I can't meet them, frankly, because I'm still a little stunned you have one."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Being something so like the old Rurik would have said made it easy to fall back into the tone of irritated junior officer. "Just because a lot of dating opportunities never arose when we were serving together doesn't mean I couldn't get a woman's attention."

"I don't know, I kind of wonder if Zeth's right and it's just the old falling-for-the-medic thing." It didn't sound quite as casual as the old banter, but then, that wouldn't be appropriate for a captain, would it? "And if anyone would know, he would. He's been with one of our medics almost since Endor."

"It's not like that," and it wasn't any more, even though if he were being fair it had certainly started out that way. "Fi's . . . well, okay, maybe I was a bit vac-sick, but I still remember waking up in the medical bay and thinking she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. After I talked to her, though, I _knew_ she was. I'm just kind of stunned she ever agreed to marry _me._ "

"I know how you feel," Rurik said solemnly, and Giriad was confused until he saw the almost-imperceptible twitch at the corner of his old friend's mouth.

"You don't get to come back from the dead just to make fun of me some more!" He felt the laughter, a lot more genuine, threatening to burst back out.

"From my point of view, _you're_ the one back from the dead, so forgive me if I let myself enjoy having you alive to pick on again," Rurik retorted. "And I'm happy for you, honestly, I am. It's just strange to go from thinking of you as dead to you as a Rebel and married and with kids."

"Well, if someone told me you were still alive, I'm not sure 'captain of an Imperial-class Destroyer' is the first place I'd have thought you'd be." He looked around, once again struck by how sterile and austere the ready room was. "You've never . . . I mean, there hasn't been anyone as far as personally goes? Since Thelea, I mean."

The glitter of what might have been anger was gone much more quickly this time, replaced by a wry smile. "What do you mean? Of course there has." He raised both hands in an all-encompassing gesture. "Meet the wife. Imperial Naval Ship _Defiance._ We have a little over thirty thousand children, none of whom leave home and all of whom are my responsibility." The bright blue eyes darkened a bit. "So far, I've done pretty well keeping them all in one piece."

Gir blinked. Even when he'd been in the Imperial Navy, it had never occurred to him what it must be like for senior officers, except of course where Lord Vader was concerned and then most of his thoughts had only gone so far as gratitude he was usually beneath the Dark Lord's notice. Given what the Imperial Remnant had been through in the last few years, from whatever had happened immediately after Endor to warlords fighting it out among themselves to Isard's brief ascendancy, it probably hadn't gotten any better. "No offense, but I think I got the better deal."

Before Rurik could answer, and Gir wasn't sure but he thought he looked a little regretful, the comm chimed. "Bridge to Captain Caelin."

Rurik sighed and tapped the switch. "Go ahead."

"Captain, we're picking up a strange set of transmissions from the outer edge of the Pannonian system," the voice said. "Some of it sounds like a distress signal. We can't get a clean feed, sir, but the transmission's tripping some of the Unknown Expeditionary language databanks."

"How quickly can we get there?" Rurik was already standing up, absently tugging his jacket back into place.

"Fifteen minutes, sir, best speed."

"Make the jump, best possible speed, sound general quarters, and order Alpha Squadron to standby, special operations status. While we're in hyperspace, get Com on that translation and see if we can figure out exactly who we're heading towards before we get there. I'm on my way. Captain out." Rurik tapped the switch again and looked up at Gir. "Well. Duty calls again."

"I guess you can just lock the door until my escort gets here," Gir said reluctantly. Returning to lockup, whether it was a detention cell or spartan quarters, had very little appeal.

Rurik blinked. "Kriff. I forgot about that." If he noticed that cursing probably wasn't appropriate for a Star Destroyer Captain, in front of a prisoner or not, he didn't show it. He stared at Giraid, taking in the wrinkled khakis apparently for the first time, and sighed. "Look, you want proof we have bigger problems than bickering over political systems that don't work? If you keep your mouth shut, stay near me, and promise not to try anything stupid, come with me and you can watch."

"Do I want to ask how many breaches of regulations that would involve?" Gir tried to tabulate it himself, and didn't want to think what would have happened in Vader's fleet if a captain even suggested.

"I thought you were a Rebel now," Rurik said, heading for the door and clearly expecting Gir to follow. "What are you doing worrying about rules? That's my job, and since I'm the captain, my ship, my rules."

"If you say so, Captain." Gir followed, trying to remember a saying he'd heard once, years ago. Something about how the more things were different, the more the same they stayed? He didn't remember exactly, but for some reason he had a feeling it was supremely appropriate.

Rurik tried to ignore the odd looks from the crew as he walked down the bridge, Gir staying as close behind as his own shadow. Outside the viewports, the mottled silver-blue of hyperspace was flickering by, and a quick glance at the countdown chrono told him they were ten minutes out from their destination. Commander Sosabow, his first officer, was standing on the main bridge deck, and it said a great deal about their working relationship that he gave Gir a brief, confused glance, and then focused on his captain.

"ComScan picked up the signal about ten minutes ago, sir," he said, directing Rurik's attention to the communications readout. "The translation software's been working on it, but there was enough distortion we aren't getting a clear reading. It does sound like a distress signal, but so far, the best the computer can do is it appears to match the linguistic signatures for the Chiss language, sir."

"Chiss?" Rurik had gotten far more accustomed to both the name and the occasional interaction with members of their species since the _Defiance_ and her Victory-class escorts had been posted to the edge of Wild Space and the Outer Rim, mostly via contact with groups of Imperial agents affiliated somehow with the Grand Admiral's Unknown Regions project. But so far, while the starmaps the Admiral had issued them showed the known boundaries of their territory, the _Defiance_ hadn't had any call to range even within a long-distance hyperspace hop of their borders. "We're a long way from Ascendancy territory."

"I know, sir, but that's what the computer keeps spitting out." Sosabow shook his head, scrolling the display back through the analysis. "It might be a related language, we're not sure. But there was severe electromagnetic distortion and of course we lost the contact when we jumped to lightspeed."

"Electromagnetic distortions?" That sounded all too familiar.

Sosabow's expression said he was thinking the same thing. "Yes, sir. Field interference in the usual bands."

"Wonderful." Rurik turned to the crew pit. "I want full shields on arrival and turbolaser batteries at combat ready as soon as we drop out of hyperspace. Fighters on standby, special combat procedure." Barely waiting to hear the acknowledgment he turned to the tractor-beam operator stations. "And I want forward tractors hot and ready to go. Standing orders, we get a shot at taking an enemy fighter in one piece, we do it."

"Aye, sir." The crewers were their usual efficient selves. Not a few of them had been on _Defiance_ 's secondary bridge during the battle that had lead to his taking command (he'd thought temporarily) and most had thrived with their move to prime crew.

Rurik turned back to Sosabow and the communications display. "What makes you think this was a distress signal?"

"Besides the interference, it repeats on a cycle." Sosabow called up the graphic readout of the transmission and the audio playback. There was more static than voice, and an eerie, metallic grating interference that was all too familiar, but here and there a voice, accented and speaking a lilting language that sounded distantly familiar, burst through in fits and starts. Rurik heard more vowels and pauses than consonants, and no words that he could recognize, but while the voice was measured and calm, he thought he could detect an undercurrent of tension. If they were under attack by the dark ones as the interference suggested, whomever was speaking had an admirable level of restraint.

Gir had leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "Is that background noise . . . the dark ships?"

Sosabow glanced suspiciously at him, but Rurik only said, "That seems to be their method of jamming. Or some byproduct of their energy systems. Or just their method of speech. We've never gotten a close enough look to say."

"I didn't think I remembered what their ships were like," Gir murmured, staring at the comm analysis. "There was just the one mission. But I remember that sound."

"I hear it in my sleep," Rurik admitted, and though Sosabow didn't say anything, he saw his first officer shudder. "Well, we'll see soon enough." He glanced at the chrono again and raised his voice. "Two minutes to reversion. Weapons and tractors, stand by."

As the starlines flared and resolved themselves into the starfield of realspace, the _Defiance_ raised shields and had barely slowed to sublight combat speed before the TIEs, with Zeth in the Defender, had launched and were streaking out ahead of the Destroyer towards the two larger ships and the small swarm of dark, dartlike fighters swarming the smaller of the two.

Sosabow was already checking the tactical readouts even as Rurik moved for a better look, resisting the urge to watch out the viewports as he couldn't possibly see enough detail at this distance. "The smaller ship definitely matches the profile for a Chiss Ascendancy transport," the commander said. "We don't have any details in the files on her weapons or communications equipment, but the outline fits."

"Attempt to hail her," Rurik said. "We may not get through the jamming but–"

"Sir, we're picking up a transmission from the transport," the comm officer interrupted. "They're using a trade language and it's obviously meant for us. The jamming's making it hard to get the entire signal."

"Put it on speaker." Rurik listened as the crackled and whine of live jamming sputtered over the speakers, and then there was a pause, and a voice in the emotionless tones of translation software cut through, cleaner after the computer scrubbed it.

" _Human vess–iss Ascendancy ship_ Terl'a– _imperative message reac–'urod–phalanx of Sec–yal to–'arana-alien influence have pene–cil corrupt–danger to Empire of–and Chiss Ascendancy and protectorate. Cannot trust the High Counc–protect our people. Rightful council–beg the return of Mitth'–"_ There was another burst of static. " _Repeat, human vessel, this Ascendancy ship–"_

Another crackle of static cut the message off completely, and Rurik turned to the tactical display. "Close to turbolaser distance on that cruiser," he said, "put us between her and the transport if you can. Where are our fighters?"

"Alpha Leader reports first engagement. Some of the enemy fighters are turning on our TIEs, but the cruiser's batteries are ignoring them. Their priority appears to be the transport."

"Tell him to make them work for it. Open a channel to the transport, use a tightbeam and see if we can punch through the jamming. Run it through our translator and use the trade language." Rurik waited for a nod from the comm officer, then spoke into the transmitter. "Ascendancy ship, this is Imperial Star Destroyer _Defiance._ We received your partial transmission. We are part of the fleet of Grand Admiral Thrawn. You would know him as," and he braced himself, hoping he remembered correctly, "Mitth'raw'nuruodo. If you can, come about and into our tractor range, we can jump you out of range. Our fighters are attempting to assist."

There was a pause, and then a longer one as the message repeated. Rurik kept his eyes fixed on the tactical readouts, flinching as one and then another of the blips that were the Alpha squadron's TIEs blink out of existence. The Defender, though, was once again demonstrating its durability, streaking ahead and launching its more-powerful missile payload at the enemy cruiser. A cluster of the enemy fighters had broken away from harassing the Chiss ship, swinging to engage the Imperial fighters, and one was already breaking on a course for Defiance herself. Two of its spiderclaw-shaped fellows swung away from the TIEs and raced after it, opening fire despite being well out of the Destroyer's range yet.

"We're picking up an unusual energy reading from the transport, sir," the ComScan officer called from the crew pit. "Her engine signature is unstable."

"Sir!" Before Rurik could reply, communications had interrupted. "We're receiving a reply."

"Put it through," and in spite of himself he strained to see out the viewports, willing the distance to close faster.

There was a screech of the alien jamming, and once again a broken voice cut through, " _Neg–iance, engines at critical. Message must be delivered to Mit–Council is corrupt, our homeworld is under threat. Eighth and Seco–lanx still loyal-must recall–rightful–ships can't be stopped, our people need–all doomed–"_

There was another burst, louder, the nail-scraping, metal-twisting sound, and Rurik didn't blame Gir for covering his ears. On the tactical readout, the Ascendancy transport was blinking red, the energy signature from what had to be its engines registering far higher than just a preparation to jump. The lance-like energy weapons from the dark cruiser were focused on the transport's aft quarters, ignoring the pest-fly specks of the TIEs and the first long-range turbolaser bolts as _Defiance_ drew closer. The Chiss ship was trying to turn, but it was the slow, crippled movement of a dying beast and Rurik closed his eyes, knowing what was coming.

He heard Gir's sharp intake of breath and the muttered curse from Sosabow and knew it was over. The tactical readout showed the dissipating energy cloud where the transport had been, and of more immediate concern that the dark ship was starting to rotate as well, the better to bring its forward weapons to bear. _Not_ a battle he wanted right now. "Recall all TIEs and program coordinates for a return jump," he started to say. Then Rurik spotted the lone enemy fighter, closing hard with two of its fellows in pursuit closing fast. The trailing ships were shooting, the beams dissipating harmlessly on the edges of _Defiance_ 's forward shields, but as he watched, he realized the lead ship wasn't firing. And now that he watched, one of the bolts from the pursuers slammed into the leader's rear quarter. The fighter pivoted, somehow not losing its momentum towards the _Defiance_ , and to Rurik's utter astonishment blasted back, nearly catching one of the Interceptors as they raced to rejoin the ship but also shearing one of the clawlike projections off its fellow. The second pursuer shot back, the energy crackling over the black fighter's shadowy surface, and something sparked. It pivoted again, losing speed but still struggling towards the Destroyer.

"Are they fighting each other?" Gir clearly had forgotten he wasn't supposed to be here, and Rurik, to be fair, didn't really care.

Sosabow had apparently decided he had bigger worries, too. "I've never seen anything like this in previous encounters. Captain, you don't think–"

"I don't know, but we can't afford to let him get destroyed before we find out." Rurik spun back to the crew pit. "Inform Alpha Leader–run interference for that enemy fighter, designate it target Omega One. Tractor, stand by–as soon as it's in range, grab it. Turbolasers, do not, I repeat do _not_ , target Omega One. Clear docking bay four and have a squad of troopers standing by. Navigation, is our course laid in?"

"Aye,sir!" The crewman did not, to his credit, sound as confused as he and everyone else in hearing range had to be feeling.

"As soon as the enemy ship and our TIEs are aboard, make the jump to hyperspace." He turned back to the tactical readout, staring in growing disbelief as the enemy fighters fired again on their compatriot, sending his course wobbling and more sparks of flame raking across his hull, just before the TIEs caught up and swarmed them. Individually they were no match for the dark ships, but they had learned a coordinated strike could disable them and sometimes even destroy them. Now it was a matter of slowing them as the wounded leader tumbled, nearly out of control, into tractor-beam range.

Gir was watching, too, a slow comprehension dawning in his eyes. "Rurik . . . I mean, Captain . . . that one was trying to get away."

"And he did," Rurik said, trying to process as the tractor beams snatched the crippled enemy ship out of space, the TIEs diving after towards their own hangars. The _Defiance_ shuddered as the first of the enemy cruiser's batteries came into range. "Helm–"

"Aye, sir, engaging hyperdrive." There was a deeper tremor of the stardrive and the brief compensation of the artificial gravity and the stars streaked to lines as they made their escape.

Rurik took a long moment to compose himself. "Is the enemy fighter secure in the hangar?"

There was a brief pause. "Docking control reports it's aboard, but their instruments can't tell if it's powered down or not. It does not appear to be actively hostile, though."

Rurik nodded, mostly to himself, and looked to Sosabow. "Commander, you have the bridge. I'm going down to docking bay four. Inform the squad leader they are not to approach the ship until I arrive. Gir, with me. You're not supposed to be here as it is."

"Yes, sir," Sosabow said. "Captain, do you think it was trying to reach us?"

"I don't know," Rurik said. "But prepare a message to be transmitted to the _Chimaera_ as soon as we're out of hyperspace. Include all the comm data from the Ascendancy ship, and all holos from the battle cams and flight recorders. And inform the Grand Admiral," and he couldn't quite believe it himself, "inform him that we may have a prisoner."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those wondering when Pellaeon had a chance to meet and form an opinion of Rurik, check out the short story TIE Fighter: Defiance. The word "whippersnapper" may have been involved. (Do check it out, I think it deserves more love than it gets. And by love I mean reviews.) Also I know I said we'd be leaving the Chimaera for a while. I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further. (I won't. We'll be back on Minbar in the next bit and we'll get to see Thelea's first attempts at diplomacy when she arrives on Coruscant.) As for the list of references, they are from the novella "Side Trip" by Timothy Zahn and Michael Stackpole, available in the anthology Tales from the Empire. Easy to miss but totally worth a read.

  


 

Thelea, once again in the plain black uniform, made her way down the detention-block walkway, looking for the cell number she needed and trying to keep her temper under suitably Jedi-like control. Diplomacy, after all, was one of the things Jedi were supposed to be expert at. The stakes, though, seemed dizzily high in this case, too high to be put on her shoulders.

Her father, of course, would brook no disagreement.

Stopping at the cell she was seeking and double-checking the number, she gave her uniform jacket a self-conscious tug and tapped the release code. The door shot up at its usual suicide speed, meant to be too fast to give the prisoner time to react before whomever it was came inside. Given how long this prisoner had been here–since Bilbringi–he might be depressed enough to be incapable of reacting. Thelea wasn't counting on it.

She was right. He was scruffy, his khaki uniform had a grayish tint that suggested prisoner laundry was not a priority, but he was already sitting up, his hands braced as if he were debating rushing whomever came through the door. He froze, though, and she felt the startled sense as her appearance registered, and that was enough for her to step through and the door to slide closed behind her. That cut off the airflow from the corridor as well, and she managed to keep her reaction to the smell to a slight twitch of the nostrils. Clearly prisoner hygiene was about at the same priority level as laundry.

Then she felt the odd, prickling sensation against her mind, and only barely kept the surprise off her face even as she pushed the clumsy but distinct Force-probe aside. _Well. Not just a sensitive, but aware enough to try mind-tricking me. Father definitely didn't mention that part, and no ysalamiri, meaning he probably doesn't know. Well done, Rebel._

Thelea stood still for a moment, taking in the wavy brown hair and the stubble, the flash of defiant pride in the eyes, and most of all how the other was sizing her up, scanning for weapons, interrogation tools, anything that was either threat or opportunity. She could see and feel the start of surprise when his gaze fell on her lightsaber. Apparently that was even more of a surprise than her race.

He shook that off the way she'd shrugged aside the mind probe, and deliberately looked her up and down. "I knew the Empire was short-handed," he said finally, "but women and aliens? Women aliens? I guess it really is the New Order this time."

Thelea kept several retorts to that choked down. "Lieutenant Corran Horn, I believe."

"You believe correctly, at least about that." Horn appeared to relax, slouching back casually onto the hard bunk. Too casually. "I've been wondering when they were going to get around to me. Guess there were more important things going on. At least it gave you plenty of time to work on that disrupted sleep, weird eating schedule, destabilizing softening-up system. Compared to Ysanne Isard's prison, this is practically a luxury vacation."

Thelea shrugged, barely. Bravado, mostly, but he had the dangerously-serene sense of someone who really did feel he had nothing to lose. "I am supposed to take you to meet with someone. However, before I do that, I am instructed to list a series of references, without further explanation. You will indicate if these have a particular meaning to you. I don't need to know the context, only that you understand them together. Is that clear?"

"As a Hutt's slime bath," Horn retorted, more pro forma disobedience than anything else, she thought. Once again, his eyes fell on her weapon. "Do you really know how to use that thing, or does the Grand Admiral just like arming his people with relics from the Emperor's old stash?"

"Try something stupid and find out," she retorted, then grimaced at how easily he had just pushed a button. "Do you understand?"

"No, but you might as well read off your list anyway." Horn settled back farther, his arms crossed, the sharp eyes fixed on her. She had the uncanny feeling, Force or no Force, of being read.

"Very well." It was a bizarre list, and she didn't entirely understand it herself, but her father had assured her if this _was_ Corran Horn and he were the appropriate prisoner to choose for this, he'd understand. "The references are: monomolecular stiletto, Treasure Ship Row, Mandalorian armor, Tunroth, the safe-conduct word 'masterpiece', and Chassu's Selonian nudes." She did her best to keep her expression neutral, but it wasn't easy. To her father, the list had almost been amusing, or at least that had been her impression. Obviously some obscure puzzle of his, as usual, and it suited him not to let her in on the code. Or the joke.

Clearly, though, it meant something to the prisoner. For a moment, he just looked blankly confused, and then it was as if she could see the calculations being performed behind his eyes. Finally, looking more suspicious than defiant, he said, "I understand. At least, I understand what they mean to me. Where did _you_ hear them?"

Thelea ignored the question, also her orders, and pulled out her comlink. "Sergeant, open up." There was another sharp hiss, and the door opened again, this time admitting two stormtroopers and the detention-bay duty officer. "Binders," she said, gesturing at the prisoner. "I don't suppose there's any chance of getting him in the 'fresher first. My orders are take him straight up if he confirmed the references."

"We don't make a policy of providing prisoners with bathing facilities," the duty officer said, but she saw his nose wrinkle, too.

"Perhaps we should start," Thelea retorted. "In front of me, troopers. The prisoner will keep quiet and not try anything foolish. Understood, Lieutenant Horn?"

"Perfectly," and Horn might be suspicious, but he clearly wasn't going to let that stop them. "Do I get to know who's escorting me?"

"TK-11892 and TK-97958," Thelea said shortly. "Troopers, go." She dropped a pace behind, close enough to make quick work of any escape attempts and far enough to be out of range with clear room to draw if one did occur.

"An Imperial comedienne," Horn said as the troopers none-too-gently propelled him by the arms. "You have a name too? Only I like to get to know my torturers personally. A little habit I picked up when I was a guest of Ysanne Isard."

"Yes, I have a name." Not that she intended to drop it at the moment. "And I'm not planning to torture you, though keep it up and I'll consider bruising you a little. Also, don't try any more mind tricks on me, and I strongly suggest you don't try it on the person you're going to meet. It won't work, and he won't find it amusing."

"Mind trick? I don't know what you're talking about." Another fact, he was a terrible liar.

"Just don't. Answer any questions you're asked and try not to be too obnoxious. I'd hate to have to go through this all again with a new prisoner." Thelea resisted the urge to use the Force to keep his mouth shut, but in this case, that would probably be counterproductive.

The ride to the upper decks was mercifully silent, and Thelea spent most of the time in the lift wishing she had the troopers' helmet filters. There would definitely have to be revisions made about prisoner hygiene, and _this_ prisoner was being forcibly sent to the 'fresher for a shower, and possibly decon procedure, before this mission went any further.

Apparently he was one of those who liked to talk his way through a situation. It was vaguely like dealing with Rurik, and she shoved aside a momentary pang. "If this is a dinner invitation, I wish you'd given me time to dress. I do like to get prettied up for formal occasions."

"I wish we had time to hose you down, but we all want things we can't have," she said. Really, engaging in conversation, let alone sniping, was probably against regulations and simply unwise to boot, but he was good at being irritating. "Your presence was requested."

"By someone who gave you that list," Horn said, less conversationally now than as if he were mulling it over out loud. "There's not a long list of people who'd know about any of that. That the grouping makes any sense, I mean. You don't seem like the Treasure Ship Row type, so . . . into Selonian life drawing?"

"Your hobby's apparently irritating people," she said. "I have no idea what all that was about, so don't bother asking. Now be quiet and don't speak until you're spoken to. And remember what I said about mind tricks." The last thing she wanted was a reason for Father to pull out the ysalamiri again.

The command room was darkened as usual, the holographic gallery displaying more of those Chassu pieces though not, Thelea noted with some relief, _Palpatine Triumphant._ Her father was in his command chair, in that deceptively-relaxed pose, fingers steepled together as he watched them approach. The effect was, she supposed, rather eerie to humans–in the dark, the glow of his eyes must have seemed nightmarish. She only noted that he was watching much more closely than he appeared to be as she stepped to the side, leaving Horn between the troopers.

Thrawn studied the Rebel prisoner for a long moment. "A bit scruffier than I recall, but that is easily ascribed to the intervening years and his recent accommodations." There wasn't a trace of irony. "He understood the references you gave him?"

Thelea nodded. "Yes, Admiral."

"Excellent." His attention remained on the Rebel. "I had hoped we would meet again, Lieutenant Horn, though I must say I find you change of employer disappointing. You were a better-than-average CorSec agent when we last met."

Maybe it was the setting, maybe it was the uniform, maybe it was just the supreme confidence her father could radiate on command, but Horn had lost just a trace of his bravado. "Have we met? I think I'd remember that. No offense, but whatever your species is," and he glanced at Thelea and back to Thrawn, "you make a very startling impression."

"As you recognized the references, Lieutenant, I'm quite sure you do remember," Thrawn countered. "Although in fairness, you have no reason to remember _me_."

Horn was looking around, again with that air of someone who knew how to note and sort details, looking at the holographic art gallery, and trying _not_ to look at the figure in the command chair. After more than five years of being accustomed to the notion (and she suspected recalling more and more long-suppressed memories like seeing the Vercasstornnix when she was a child) Thelea no longer found her father all that intimidating, but she could appreciate both as commander of the enemy and an alien the likes of which the Rebel pilot had never seen, he was a discomfiting presence. "All those references have to do with Zekka Thyne's arrest. There was a Tunroth in the fake smuggler crew, we encountered them on Treasure Ship Row, the password we were given to pass through Imperial lines with Thyne was 'masterpiece', Kast, the bounty hunter running things, wore Mandalorian armor, gave us a molecular stilleto to use to escape from Thyne's fortress, and Kast and I had a strange conversation about Chassu's artwork. That part, he was the only one who was there." His eyes narrowed. "What, you have Kast locked up here somewhere to tell you all that?"

Thrawn's smile thinned, and Thelea schooled her reaction to remain impassive. He hated it when she rolled her eyes, but the urge was almost irresistible. "Hardly. I'm afraid you were the unwitting participant in an Imperial plan, Lieutenant Horn, as were the crew of the . . . what was that freighter called? Ah, yes, the _Hopskip_. I was tasked with destabilizing Black Sun's influence on Corellia and you and your father inserted yourself into the middle of the operation." Thrawn's expression softened, so little Thelea doubted the human could tell the difference. "I was sorry to discover that your father was killed. He was a clever man."

"You never met him, so what do you know." There was a flare of resentment that Horn didn't bother to keep off his features, but then his eyes narrowed. "Kast was an Imperial agent?" Thrawn only smiled, and shifted in his seat, casually crossing his legs and letting his hand rest on his leg where Thelea knew the concealed holster in the Mandalorian armor would have been. The entirely different posture and bearing first prompted a sense of confusion from Horn (and he clearly had little to no training in his Force abilities, if she could pick his emotions up this easily) and then what felt like disbelief. "No."

Thrawn inclined his head slightly in the affirmative. "You can see now, Lieutenant, why the Mandalorian armor was necessary. Our species is unusual enough in Wild Space, let alone the Empire, and while I might not have been recognized as an Imperial officer, my race would have drawn undesirable attention."

"Yeah, I can see how that might work," Horn said, but he sounded far less defiant than he had before. "Shame I didn't know that then. I could have saved the New Republic a lot of trouble."

Thelea bristled, restraining her fingers from twitching toward her lightsaber only with a concerted effort. Thrawn didn't so much as flinch, however. "Or caused greater trouble than any of the Rebellion yet realizes. I am not a Sith Lord, Lieutenant. I have no interest in terror for terror's sake. What I do have is a greater view of the galactic picture than your Rebellion. The late Emperor grasped the situation, in part, but he is dead." Nothing in his tone betrayed any false mourning. "I am running out of time repairing the damage that has caused. I would prefer no more resources were wasted on either side." He tilted his head, studying Horn. "I know you to be a rational person, who thinks through a situation before acting rashly. And I believe you to be a man of your word. As such, you are the ideal choice among the Rebel officers currently in custody for the . . . exercise in trust I have in mind."

"Trust?" Horn didn't even bother to hide his skepticism. Disdain, really, that was a better word for it. "What exactly have you done in the last year where any of us would be stupid enough to trust you?"

"Not executed prisoners, for a start," Thrawn said, with only a trace of irony. "Not immediately followed the pacification of Hapes with mass executions. Or the surrender of the bulk of the Rebel fleet at Yag'Dhul with an invasion of Imperial Center."

Even beneath the pallor of confinement, Horn's color faded. "You're lying. Admiral Ackbar wouldn't–"

"Admiral Ackbar is no longer in command of the Rebel forces," Thrawn interrupted. "General bel Iblis apparently persuaded your Provisional Council to gamble their chances on an effort to ambush and destroy me." He pressed a few controls in the chair's arm and the art gallery vanished, replaced by a wide-scale tactical holo of the battle of Yag'Dhul. Thelea focused on her breathing, the flow of the Force around her, her father, Horn, the stormtroopers. As such she could watch the spiraling A-wing image with a quiet detachment, calmly examine the ghost of her fear as the holo- _Chimaera_ was temporarily crippled by the fire ship, and she was able to watch, unflinching, as the _Admonitor_ lanced through the _Lusankya_ in its fatal, heroic run. She tried especially not to focus on the emotions from TK-11892 and TK-97958 as the miniature Destroyer vanished into the Super Dreadnaught's patched-together hull. She knew full well what ship they'd served on and had been evacuated from before its last suicide mission. Stormtroopers were not supposed to have feelings, but then, the reformed 501st weren't, after all, ordinary stormtroopers.

Horn had gone increasingly pale as he watched. "What happened to the ships that surrendered?" He still sounded more defiant than cowed, but he wasn't risking a look directly at Thrawn now. "And their crews?"

"Most are at Ord Trasi, in the refitting yards." Thrawn's tone remained calm, almost soothing. "General bel Iblis is with them, as are most of the crews. Under Imperial supervision for now, at least. For the moment he and his officers have decided some cooperation is preferable to indefinite imprisonment. Those who disagreed are in custody, until the situation with the Rebel leadership is . . . resolved to my satisfaction."

"Until you're on the throne in the Imperial Palace with the Empire under your rule ?" Now he didn't even bother hiding the disdain.

Thrawn, for his part, didn't bother hiding the faintly amused smile. "Everyone in the Rebellion is so eager to see me declare myself Emperor," he said mildly. "General bel Iblis said much the same. Would it make you all more comfortable if I simply placed myself on Palpatine's throne? Justify your continued resistance?"

"You expect me to believe you _don't_ want power for yourself?" Horn snorted. "You've gone to an awful lot of trouble for the fun of it, then."

Thrawn's expression darkened, and Thelea resisted the urge to try and soothe his temper via the Force. It probably wouldn't have worked and he'd been annoyed if he realized she'd tried. "I have gone to this trouble, as you put it, because _someone_ must bring order back to this sector of the galaxy. You replaced a harsh but orderly government with a thousand voices shouting at each other, leaving those forced to live under them vulnerable. If such a small, insignificant," and he could barely keep the sarcasm from being obvious if she was reading his tone right, "fleet as mine can cause your Rebel government so many problems, what exactly will it do when a truly unstoppable threat arises? I can assure you, Lieutenant, those exist, the _are_ coming, and I for one have no desire to see billions of beings in thousands of systems fall because political philosophy took precedence over security."

"We're supposed to take your word for it?" Horn folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowed. "You practically took Coruscant hostage once already. If you're holding Yag'Dhul, you have the major trade routes under your control. Why would you want to talk instead of finish us off unless you're in a much weaker position than you want us to know? Then all we have to do is hold out."

Thelea decided now was the moment to insert herself back into the conversation. Her father hadn't told her a precise point when her staged interruption would be most useful, and she wasn't sure if this was another test, or he was simply coming to accept her judgement. Probably the former. If now wasn't the time, she'd be told later. "Confronting an invasion from an enemy who is _not_ going to take prisoners and discuss surrender options might be easier for everyone, in the Core and in the Unknown Regions alike, if we were working together and not reducing each other to rubble, perhaps." She kept her tone mild, and half a mind on her father's emotions. She sensed no objection, so she continued. "Your so-called Republic and Palpatine's Empire are not the only people in the galaxy. Just a large sector, one that can be of great help to the others, or which can be a great danger. Forgive us if we prefer the former and don't consider a jumble of ten thousand voices adequate security compared to a solid, secure Empire."

Horn stared hard at her, but she felt no attempt at a mental probe. Just a try at staring her down again. Then he looked from her to Thrawn, back again, and then finally said, "Father and daughter, or uncle and niece?"

Thelea raised an eyebrow then immediately wished she hadn't as she saw the same tic from her father, and the quick flash of point-scoring triumph from Horn. Thrawn twitched one shoulder in half a shrug. "And if I said any resemblance were merely a coincidence?" Thelea had a sense of being left out of a private joke.

"I'd believe it about as much as you apparently did our story on Corellia." Horn didn't quite smirk, but it was close.

"Fair enough." Thrawn did let the faintest smile show. "Commander Thelea is correct–this matter is greater than just the systems of the Core. And I have more than the shards of Palpatine's Empire behind me. I want the rest unified as well."

"We're back to you as Emperor," the Rebel said. "And you still haven't clarified what you plan to use me for"

"I want this war to end. For that to happen without further losses on either side and before there are greater threats on our borders, negotiations must begin now." Thrawn leaned forward just a bit. "I intend to send an emissary to your Council. A first step, so to speak, in a process that I hope will not be overlong. As a gesture of goodwill, I intend to release a Rebel prisoner to accompany that emissary. Obviously, the ideal choice would be a prisoner I could trust would present an honest recounting of what he experienced, and who would honor an agreement not to harm my messenger. Of course," he added drily, "I will also be sending a small detachment of guards with that emissary in case your government takes a less than open-minded view."

"Of course," Horn said. "Assuming I agree to this, what's to stop the Council from throwing this ambassador of yours in a detention cell, guards or no guards?"

"They can try," Thelea said flatly.

"And even if they succeed," and she saw the look her father was giving her as he spoke, but ignored it, "I would be forced to consider that an indication they wished to resume hostilities. I do not wish to continue this war. But make no mistake, Lieutenant: if I have to, I will."

Horn stared hard at the Grand Admiral for a long moment. Thrawn gazed back with cool equanimity. Finally, the Rebel said, "Why me?"

Thrawn's lip twitched just a fraction and Thelea felt the slight warmth of satisfaction in the glacial calm. "Because I know you, Lieutenant Horn. You value the truth. And while I disapprove of your current affiliation, I can only deduce you chose it because you felt it was the best way to serve and protect your people. And I know that when the cause is right, you are willing to take risks. View this as a risk that will, if it pays out, defend your people, my people, and races your Alliance has never even heard of before. Isn't that a risk worth taking?"

Horn looked at him a moment longer, and Thelea felt that uncertain probe in the Force again–not an attempt to cloud any thoughts this time, but in a clumsy way, he was testing for any sign of a lie with those senses even as he scanned for more commonplace, law-officer tells. He'd find none, and she knew it. Finally, he nodded slowly, that defiant glint back in his eyes, but she could sense the tiny, faint flame of hope he was burying in the back of his mind. "If it gets me a ride back to Coruscant, I suppose it's the best offer I'm going to get. All right, Admiral. I'll go with this emissary of yours. If nothing else, it'll be worth it to see the looks on everyone's faces when I come back from the dead yet again. Especially my father-in-law."

Thelea had to bite down on a snort. Obviously she hadn't entirely contained the response because both Horn and her father were looking at her. "Given up for dead? I know how that feels." _Rurik . . ._ "Not the coming back part, though. Not yet. Maybe you can give me some pointers on how to explain yourself to your mourners during our flight."

"I figured it must be you," Horn said. "You realize handing over your own relatives might not be the safest plan at the moment, Admiral? A lot of people on Coruscant aren't very happy with you."

"Yet another reason I chose the Rebel prisoner quite deliberately," Thrawn countered. "And while she may be underestimating your Council's resources, Commander Thelea is not unfamiliar with narrow escapes. Let us hope, however, she will not find them necessary this time. For her sake, and for yours."

Horn's tight smirk wavered a little. "You have my word, if anything happens, it won't be because of me."

"And I consider your word good." Thrawn gestured to the two troopers. "You have a little time before departure. I believe a visit to the fresher and a change of clothes is in order. While you're waiting, you'll be permitted to review some of the information the Commander will be bringing about what we are facing."

Horn nodded, then glanced from one to the other of them again. "You sure it's a good idea to send your . . . daughter?" Neither of them moved, but a non-answer was likely as good as a yes to him. "There are a lot of people pretty upset about those kidnap attempts on Councilor Organa Solo and her children. That's about as low as you can get. Some people might decide this is a perfect opportunity for revenge."

"Unless I have badly misread her, not Councilor Organa Solo herself," Thrawn countered. "Nor her brother. In any case, they've had their revenge. Or at least their attempt at it. C'baoth is dead, of no great consequence to me, and I can only assume the Noghri's attempt on my life was motivated by a change in loyalties. Even if they are still determined to exact some sort of vengeance, neither seem the sort to direct it at a secondary party. I am responsible, I would be the target of an assault." His eyes darkened.. "If, however, someone were to attempt it–"

"I can take care of myself," Thelea interrupted. "I got off the Endor moon with fewer resources. I can manage a planet I've been on before."

Horn gave her a skeptical look. But Thrawn only shook his head. "Commander Thelea is at heart a pilot. Difficulty with accurate risk assessment and overconfidence in one's own abilities appears to be a common trait among them."

Thelea sighed. "Troopers, take Lieutenant Horn to secure quarters. Let him get cleaned up and fed. We leave at fourteen hundred, so make sure he's ready." She waited until they had escorted him out before looking at her father. "I hate to admit it, but he does have a point. I am, all things considered, the perfect hostage if they want to force your hand, unless you think they'll assume you wouldn't care." There was another possibility, an ugly little thought in a voice that sounded awfully like Aunt Kelah's, poking at the back of her mind, but she tried to ignore it.

Her father, naturally, saw through her faster than even Master Aleishia would have. "And there is always the possibility I would consider resolving this conflict more important than my daughter's life?" His smiles were never entirely what she'd call pleasant, but this one was tinged with a touch of warmth. "My own life, certainly. Yours? Only if there were no other choice."

"Good to know it's last resort." He was right, of course, and there _was_ something rather warming knowing he meant it. "I still think you should send Master Aleishia. It's her home, and they might actually listen to a Jedi."

"The Jedi part is exactly why she would be the worst possible choice," Thrawn said, rising from his command chair. "Unfortunately, my . . . perhaps ill-considered use of the clone C'baoth and his being revealed for what he was will make them highly suspicious of any human Jedi who claimed to be acting on my behalf. Another clone, an apprentice of C'baoth's, though your Master is too old and far too much a realist to have been that one." Another oblique reference to C'baoth, that implication there was something he knew about the mad Jedi which he wasn't sharing, but Aleishia had advised her not to pursue it, and Thelea didn't have time to disobey just now. "No, they would seize on her as a traitor, a fraud, or a dark Jedi. That would be as counterproductive as simply bombarding Imperial Center until their new Senate was so much rubble." He contemplated the lone artwork remaining in the command room, that swirling, multi-colored wave trapped in its eternal self-contained storm. "They will not trust an appeal by a human in Jedi guise. Their military will is broken, or near that, so they cannot hope to resist that way. No, now is the time for another kind of shock."

Thelea thought of the Rebel pilot, hopefully being given a good scrubbing and that worn-out uniform dumped down the compactor shaft. "I'm not sure I'm going to be that big a surprise."

Her father's expression was distant, almost dreamy. "It's what you, and your escort, represent," he said softly. "The time has come to open their eyes to a wider galaxy. Whether they can truly accept what that means will determine the fates of billions." He stared into the writhing mass of colored flames trapped within the alien art. "Whether this is the beginning of a new age for the galaxy, or whether it all ends in fire." Thelea shivered, and for the moment, decided it was better to say nothing and contemplate the art, hoping that Thrawn saw something other than eternal destruction prophesied in it.

The Zeta-class shuttle was intended for longer-range transport than the newer Lambdas, but it still looked very small to Pellaeon for the long journey from their current position to Imperial Center. That was without factoring in the uncomfortable notion of one passenger being a Rebel prisoner perfectly able to fly the ship himself. Even with the half-dozen stormtroopers, and Thelea's own demonstrated ability to defend herself, it seemed like dangerously close quarters. But then, he had not been responsible for mission planning, and would not be the one having to travel all the way to Imperial Center aboard. If he had, he'd have had a few requests.

Like an escort of several capital ships, for a start.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had just finished his own inspection and was descending the ramp, accompanied by a Chiss officer in a uniform that reminded Pellaeon vaguely of a cross between a fleet uniform and the styles from the Clone Wars, though as he doubted the Admiral would appreciate the comparison he kept the thought to himself. It was, at least, predominantly gray, though no Imperial uniform he'd ever seen had contrasting stitching in dark red. "Everything appears to be in order," Thrawn was saying, nodding as he passed the troopers standing guard at the base of the ramp. "Not a particularly comfortable journey, but I've traveled farther in this shuttle and managed." He saw Pellaeon and stopped. "News, Captain?"

"Decrypt is working on the message from the _Defiance_ , sir. Captain Caelin used a high-level code, practically counterpart-strength." He thought the Chiss beside Thrawn flinched at the name, but he might have been imagining things. "It should be done shortly, however."

"Excellent." Thrawn glanced at the officer with him, though, and said something in their lilting language. The officer nodded. "Commander Thelea should be joining us shortly. I would appreciate, Captain, if you didn't mention this message in her presence. This mission will be delicate enough without distractions."

"Of course, sir." Though if Decrypt decided to comm him at an inopportune moment . . . . "I would feel much better about things if you were sending more of an escort, sir. If this were to become a hostage situation–"

"A hostage situation is precisely what it is," Thrawn said amiably. Too amiably; Pellaeon made a mental note not to express further worries aloud. "In many cultures, the offering of a high-value member of a family as a gesture of trust and a demonstration of good will is a tradition of ancient standing. And in any case my daughter will not be alone." He looked at the Chiss officer, who didn't show any indication he'd heard.

The sound of footsteps approaching prevented Pellaeon from having to fight any urges to disagree. Commander Thelea was in her black uniform, her lightsaber at her belt. Master Aleishia was with her, the white streak in her hair bright in the harsh light of the hangar. She caught Pellaeon's gaze and gave him a polite, eerily _knowing_ smile, and he tried very hard not to think about that message in Decrypt. "Master Aleishia, Commander," he said, nodding to them both.

The Jedi Master gave him a polite nod, and then her gaze fell on the Chiss officer. "Kres'ten'tarthi," she said, or that was how Pellaeon heard it, at any rate. "I'm surprised to find you so far from the Hand."

He nodded, Pellaeon thought a trace uneasily. "Master Jedi," he said, and he had more than a hint of an accent, far more than Pellaeon had ever noticed the Admiral or Thelea possessing. The glowing eyes shifted to Thelea. "First-Daughter. I am honored to have been assigned to this mission."

Thelea's lips pressed in a thin line. "Hello, Stent." She turned to the Admiral. "I don't need a pilot, Father."

"I disagree." Thrawn's tone was superficially amiable, but Pellaeon thought he knew it well enough by now to hear the durasteel in it. "Considering your passenger, having more hands than your own and Alpha Squad's is a reasonable precaution. Given your destination, one of my best and most trustworthy pilots was the logical choice."

"In that case I'd have preferred Colonel Fel." Her voice was just quiet enough it might have been meant as an aside, and just clear enough Pellaeon was quite sure they all heard it. She looked back at Stent. "Do not address me as First-Daughter, Commander. I don't like it."

The Chiss male studied her for a moment, then lowered his gaze respectfully. "As you wish, Lady Thelea."

The sigh came out between gritted teeth. "It's a long way to Coruscant and we're going to have a talk about this. If you're piloting, shouldn't you be doing the pre-flight?"

Pellaeon blinked at the harsh tone, and he saw the flicker of some emotion cross Thrawn's features as well. Aleishia, though, only watched as Stent nodded, almost a bow, and went back up the ramp. "If I might ask," he began, as soon as the other was likely out of earshot.

"I'd prefer you didn't," but at least Thelea only sounded weary. "Father, just so you're aware, I have _not_ revised my answer. If this is some sort of attempt to wear me down–"

"As I said, it is merely a reasonable precaution. Kres'ten'tarthi is head of my Household Phalanx, I trust him implicitly. Including with your safety, which he will guard at the cost of his own life if necessary. I am not the one allowing irrational personal feelings into the matter, nor is he." Thrawn was no longer bothering to modify his tone.

Pellaeon glanced at Aleishia, whose expression remained impassive. The Jedi Master gave a slight shrug, and said quietly, "Kres'ten'tarthi made a not-unreasonable request of Mitth'raw'nuruodo regarding a daughter of a noble house. My apprentice, however, was . . . less than receptive."

Thrawn's eyes narrowed. "As is her right. In this matter, from a certain perspective, she outranks me." He turned back to Thelea. "But not in others. The maps, recordings, and files from Niruaun are aboard. This," and he held up a comm cylinder, "is keyed to a priority frequency. Assuming your communications are not jammed, you will be able to reach me, both for updates, and in the event of . . . emergencies."

"Meaning if the _Chimaera_ needs to come and begin a more aggressive form of negotiation." Thelea smiled thinly. She took the cylinder and tucked it in the pocket beside her command cylinder. "Is Lieutenant Horn aboard yet?"

Thrawn merely gestured behind them, and Pellaeon heard the sound of stormtrooper boots on deck plates. The prisoner looked surprisingly well for someone who had spent the better part of three months in the detention level. He was wearing the kind of drab jumpsuit used by engineering crews, minus the insignia, and he looked clean-shaven and as if his hair had been recently trimmed. He even looked alert, scanning the hangar with the calculating eyes of a soldier looking for an escape route. The binders securing his wrists and the four stormtroopers surrounding him made that unlikely in the extreme, but these days Pellaeon was not willing to gamble against improbable.

The escort and their prisoner stopped before their group. Thrawn inspected the Rebel pilot with that cool, once-over look he was so good at, whether it was a piece of art, a prisoner, or a subordinate he was examining. Finally he nodded. "A significant improvement. May your journey home be comfortable, Lieutenant Horn. I do hope we have the opportunity to meet again. Our encounters have both been quite . . . informative."

"Forgive me if I don't say the same," Horn said.

"I wouldn't expect you to. Troopers, you have your orders. Take him aboard." The squad commander saluted, and they moved up the ramp into the shuttle, Horn still in binders. The two troopers standing guard pivoted with parade-ground precision and followed them, leaving the Admiral, Pellaeon, Master Aleishia, and Thelea standing in the hangar. Thrawn turned to his daughter. "You are prepared?"

"As I'll ever be." Thelea had gone very quiet, and something in her posture reminded Pellaeon of a young recruit departing for training, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of their decision. "I only hope I don't disappoint you." _That_ was a sentiment Pellaeon could completely understand, even if he didn't follow what she said next, something in their native language that would have been too faint for him to catch even if he could have understood it.

Thrawn, clearly, understood, and put a hand on her shoulder, speaking in a much firmer tone, something that made Thelea smile, if rather thinly. Then she turned to her Master. "Well. Sending me off on my own again."

"You are more than prepared, Apprentice." Aleishia's expression had a strange edge to it, though, one that sent an odd chill down Pellaeon's spine.

"I wish you were going with me." Thelea wavered a little, as if she were debating the relative merits of dignity versus embracing her master.

Aleishia saw the same thing, apparently, as she reached out and gently took her apprentice's hand. "You don't need me, Mitth'ele'arana. You are trained, and ready, and stronger than you or some others know." Here she glanced briefly at the Admiral, who met her gaze with that impassive cool of his.

"I hope you're right." Thelea followed her gaze, and her expression had the hint of a smirk. "Look out for him, Master."

"I always do. I owe your mother that much, at least." Aleishia's smile softened, was almost maternal now. "The Force will be with you, Thelea. Always."

Thelea stared at her for a moment, that same tiny crease between her eyes that her father got when matters were not going entirely as he'd anticipated. But she only nodded, turning away, with a brief inclination of her head to Pellaeon. "Captain." He returned the gesture, and watched as she walked up the ramp to the shuttle. Thrawn stepped clear, but he did not leave the docking bay until the Zeta shuttle had lifted off and departed, then following on the bay's scanners until it had leapt to hyperspace. The tension did not, however, leave the Admiral's frame until the Jedi said softly, "She is ready."

Thrawn didn't move for a moment, but then he gave a brief, tight, nod and turned to Pellaeon. "Captain, I believe we should check on the decryption of Captain Caelin's message." The tone was formal and typical and as clear a message as any that the topic was firmly changed.

Pellaeon was only mildly surprised when Aleishia followed them to the bridge. The Jedi was normally quiet when moving about the ship, but there was a strange stillness to her now. Presumably, she was in a pensive mood. Seeing her apprentice sent off into dangerous territory was undoubtedly sobering, and he sympathized, though it seemed odd she was more concerned about it than Thelea's actual father. "Decrytption should be complete shortly, Admiral," he said, checking as Thrawn returned to his command chair. "I'm not sure why Captain Caelin felt it was necessary to use such a complex encryption."

"Undoubtedly he felt whatever he needed to report was both extremely important and not something he wanted intercepted." Thrawn was examining departmental reports and the status displays as he waited. Nominal, all of them, Pellaeon knew. Aleishia had wandered to the viewport and was staring out into the starfield, away from Yag-Prime and the rest of the fleet. "It is also possible he felt it necessary to minimize time spent out of hyperspace to transmit it."

"If so I hope he has a logical destination in mind," Pellaeon said. "Such as here."

"Captain Caelin is not an irrational man," Thrawn said amicably. "He'll chose a destination that's secure and if necessary, convenient for a rendezvous."

"He's found something." Aleishia's voice was so soft, Pellaeon almost didn't hear her. She was still staring out the viewport, dark eyes wide and distant. "Something from the dark ones."

"One can hope," Thrawn said, turning in his seat as a duty officer approached. "That _is_ , after all, what he is patrolling for."

The officer came to a halt, with a salute to them both. "Captain, Decrypt has completed decoding the _Defiance'_ s transmission."

"Route it to my command station," Thrawn said before Pellaeon could reply. The officer turned to comply, while Thrawn looked to Pellaeon. "It appears we'll have our answer, Captain."

Pellaeon nodded, watching as the holo flared to life. Caelin still looked far too young for his taste to be a Star Destroyer captain, but he did at least seem to be developing a certain level of respect to his tone. A far cry from the hostile, downright insubordinate young starfighter commander Pellaeon had met when the _Defiance_ limped into Bilbringi with her bridge crew wiped out. "Grand Admiral Thrawn," the recording said, with a respectful bow from the neck. "When you receive this, the _Defiance_ will be en route to Ord Trasi. It's the nearest facility which might be equipped to deal with what we've captured. CommScan intercepted a message in the Pannonian system. The source was a Chiss Ascendancy transport under attack by a dark ship. We attempted to assist, but the transport was destroyed. She was called the _Terl'an'harana_."

Thrawn went suddenly, preternaturally, still. Aleishia's eyes were wide as galaxies and she was staring at the Admiral, but not, Pellaeon could tell, really seeing him.

Caelin, of course, was only a hologram and simply continued. "During the fight, one of the enemy fighters made an attempt to flee to us. It was badly damaged, but we did manage to bring it aboard before we jumped out of the system. The enemy fighter . . . ." Caelin seemed to pause and steady himself. Pellaeon saw Aleishia turn away from the viewport, moving slowly to join them. "Admiral, they're not drones. They're . . . sir, the only way to describe it is they're computers with living beings used as the central processor. Medical is trying, but the . . . pilot, for lack of a better term, is essentially wired into the craft, including his vital systems. Attempts to separate him from it completely have failed. We're trying to keep him alive as long as we can, but we can't even figure out how to make our computers communicate with the organic systems in the fighter. Given how extensive the . . . ingrowth is, we can only assume he's been integrated with the ship for quite some time." The holo paused, and Pellaeon could see the younger man struggling with how to phrase the next bit. "Admiral, the being they were using . . . he's one of your people. He's a Chiss."

The image flickered and Caelin vanished, replaced by a figure in a medical restraint system, or at least Pellaeon assumed that's what the cocoon of wires and fiber leads cris-crossing the humanoid's body were. There were so many it was impossible to tell if the being was even clothed. In the gray-blue shades of the hologram, the skin could have been any color, and one eye was obscured or missing, but the one he could see glowed and Pellaeon had no doubt if the holo had shown color, it would have been red.

"Captain!" Thrawn's voice cracked with the unmistakable tone of an order and for a moment Pellaeon had no idea what he meant. Then he heard the shrill keen, like a wounded animal, and was barely quick enough to grab Aleishia as she crumpled, half-fainting, to the deck. He was dimly aware both of the stares of the crew and of Thrawn waving away inquiries about summoning the medics. Caelin's voice, meanwhile, droned on from the holo:

"We were able to clean up and resolve the transmission from the _Terl'an'harana._ I've attached it. I hope the message makes sense to you, Admiral, and that you can come up with an appropriate response." Now, _there_ was a ghost of the disdainful, disrespectful young officer Pellaeon remembered. "I don't know what I'd tell them, but given the circumstances, I suspect they'll send someone else, and they'll need some sort of answer. _Defiance_ out."

There was a pause, and Pellaeon tried to help Aleishia to her feet. She moaned, a wordless, agonized sound, and slumped against him. He could feel her heart beating hard enough to shake her whole frame. Then a mechanical voice, the translation computer, began an emotionless recitation as a transcript in Aurebesh scrolled across the holographic display.

" _Human vessel, this is Chiss Ascendancy ship_ Terl'an'harana. _It is imperative this message reach the Syndic Mitth'raw'nuruodo. The household Phalanx of the Second Family, loyal to the rightful heir of Lady Reli'set'harana, begs his assistance. Hostile alien influences have penetrated the High Council. The Council is corrupted. There is danger to his Empire of the Hand and the Chiss Ascendancy and protectorate. We cannot trust the High Council to protect our people. Rightful councilors must be restored. The loyal Phalanx begs the return of Mitth'ele'arana and the restoration of their rightful Aristocra."_ There was slight break. " _Negative,_ Defiance, _engines at critical. Message must be delivered to Mitth'raw'nuruodo. The Council is corrupt, our homeworld is under threat. Eighth and Second Phalanx are still loyal. We must recall our rightful Aristorcra. The dark ships can't be stopped, our people need help or we are all doomed_."

Pellaeon stared at Thrawn, who stood as if transfixed, staring at the words glowing on the holo's display. Finally, he said softly, "As long as I have waited, and now they ask, not for me, but for my daughter."

"And we've just sent her light-years in the other direction," Pellaeon said. Aleishia had gone quiet, but he could feel her trembling, her legs still to weak to support her as she slumped against his shoulder. "They sound desperate. We can always recall–"

Thrawn shook his head slowly. "This mission is too important. And besides . . . she is not ready for _this_." He turned towards the crew pit. "Notify the _Basilisk_ and Admiral Niriz that they have command of the system. Then send an encrypted burst to the _Defiance_ and inform her we will be there as soon as possible. Helm, set course for Ord Trasi, best possible speed."

Without waiting to hear the acknowledgments, he moved to Pellaeon's side. Taking her by the chin, he forced Aleishia to look up. Pellaeon almost protested his brusqueness, but he saw the look on the Admiral's face and remained silent. "You cannot break. This cannot break you," Thrawn said, staring hard at the Jedi, his fingers gripping her hard enough Pellaeon thought he could see bruises forming. "She will know if you do and you cannot help him by shattering now. I _know_ what you are feeling, but you _cannot break._ Do you understand me?"

Aleishia's eyes were infinitely dark, the brown nearly swallowed by the black of her pupils. But her gaze fixed on Thrawn, and she was now shaking so hard Pellaeon nearly lost his hold. She drew in a deep breath and for a moment he thought she was steadying herself

Then she cried out again, a word, he could only guess a name, and was so much dead weight in his arms. _"Serhal!_ "


	8. Author's Note: A Primer on Babylon 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you are already familiar with Babylon 5, skip to the section on telepaths at the end as it's the only part that's mostly my fanfic and extrapolating. If you're a Star Wars fan who knows nothing about B5, you might want to read this to catch up.

  


A/N: Hoo boy. This is a completely separate note, as the majority of readers of this fic are Star Wars fans, and while it was not QUITE as obscure when I started this series, in fact it was still on the air, Babylon 5 is undeservedly more of a cult classic and a lot of people apparently don't know it. If you ARE familiar with Babylon 5, feel free to skip this very lengthy note except for the very end, where I introduce the OC. Also, FAIR WARNING: this chapter is both long, as I want to try and get most of the non-GFFA stuff out of the way as quickly as possible, and it also contains very minor spoilers for _Specters and Visions_. In as much as you can spoil a prequel where the end is a foregone conclusion.

Clearly I'm a biased fan, but I honestly consider it the best-written episodic sci-fi television ever. It's helped in that by most of season two and all of seasons 3 and 4 being written by one person, J. Michael Straczynski, who started from day one with a planned plot, including "trap doors" under characters in case an actor wanted to leave so he could write them out without destroying the story. It also deals with very similar themes of battles versus good and evil, what good and evil mean, and even the question of destiny and being in the right place at the right time as Star Wars. I highly, highly recommend it.

I am not going to explain Babylon 5 in its entirety. Very briefly: ten years after the Earth-Minbari War (which started over an accident in a first contact situation and where the Minbari curbstomped the humans all the way up the final assault on Earth when they abruptly surrendered) the last of the Babylon stations, Babylon 5, was built by Earth with the cooperation of the Minbari, the Narn, the Centauri, and the League of Non-Aligned Worlds as a place of "commerce and diplomacy." Babylons 1-3 were destroyed and Babylon 4 was thought destroyed, but as we find out in seasons 1 and 3 it was stolen and taken somewhere in time (in season 1 we see it briefly reappear, in season 3 we discover the main characters of seasons 2-4 of the show helped steal it and a character from season 1 is taking it a thousand years into the past.) Babylon 5 becomes the hub for more than just diplomacy, including (this is the important part for the fic) the latest and ultimately last war among the 'first ones', hyperadvanced ancient races, the primary two of which are the Vorlons, energy beings who present themselves to the younger races as angelic figures and are proponents of growth through order and obedience, and the race the humans and Minbari call the Shadows (because their real name is a million characters long and no one could pronounce it if they tried.) THEY prefer growth through violence, conflict and chaos, and war. Delenn (a Minbari who has undergone a transformation using ancient technology that made her functionally half-human both to act as a bridge between their races and to balance out that character who went back with Babylon 4, a human who had to become a Minbari) and John Sheridan, human commander of B5, lead a great coalition that ultimately tells off both the Vorlons (who up to a point were the "good" guys, and whom you will learn more about in this fic) AND the Shadows and results in the departure of ALL the First Ones. There is also a civil war among the humans, again lead by Sheridan and his crew, to overthrow a dictatorial EarthGov president (who also had connections with the Shadows before they leave.)

Important concepts for this fic: Time travel is possible, but requires extremely advanced technology none of the younger races have on their own. Ditto intergalactic/interdimensional portals (as in the TV movie Thirdspace, where a race that even terrified the Vorlons and Shadows begins coming through.)

The Vorlons and in their own way the Shadows actually meant well. They just disagreed violently on how growth should be achieved, to the point they became "giants on the playground" who didn't notice who got trampled. Both have technology advanced to the point younger races almost find it like magic. And the Vorlons have, demonstrated in show, the capacity to 'preserve' shorter-lived races in a kind of suspended animation and awaken them at will.

Hyperspace is more like Star Wars than Star Trek's warp drive-it's a separate dimension entered either via a jump gate or with ships that possess the technology, a jump drive that can open its open jump point in realspace. It's also known to enhance a telepath's natural ability, especially when the telepath is P12, the highest (acknowledged) rating on the humans' scale.

Ah, yes, telepaths...

The Vorlons introduced the telepath gene into the humans for certain (and probably the other younger races as well, though why they did it with the Narns or Minbari a thousand years ago and the humans only a hundred is never really explained.) Human telepaths vary in strength, from P1s, basically able to notice telepathic scans and sometimes block them, to P12s, who are strong enough to scan from long distances, break through lower rates' blocks, and conduct more difficult manipulations. P12s are the rarest rating. When telepaths first appeared among the human species, people panicked, and there was a period when hundreds if not thousands were murdered. Eventually EarthGov dealt by creating Psi Corps, which all telepaths were required to register with. Telepaths who refused to register and join the Corps were required to take a drug called sleepers that suppresses telepathic ability, or they were sent to prison. Telepaths were required to train from childhood with the Corps. All telepaths not on sleepers were required to wear gloves in public (skin to skin contact enhances scans and gloves limited the possibility of accidents) and to wear a pin that identified them as Corps telepaths.

And all P12s were required by the Corps to train to become Psi Cops. Officially, Psi Cops policed other telepaths–as the strongest rating, they couldn't be blocked without enormous effort–but they were sometimes used by the politicians. A faction within Psi Corps, working with the Earth Gov president, even handed over imprisoned rogue telepaths to be used by the Shadows as components in their ships. Shadow ships use living beings as their CPUs, but that made them vulnerable to telepathic attack. They hoped using telepaths as the CPUs would negate this advantage. That 'cargo' was intercepted by Sheridan with help from a Psi Cop named Bester, who was in general an enemy of the B5 crew, but who sided with them against the Shadows after discovering the president was selling out telepaths. Bester and his faction with the Psi Cops took the view of 'telepaths first', with the long term goal of telepaths supplanting 'mundanes' as the dominant force in the Earth Alliance. That conflict would come to a head in what was called the Telepath Wars.

Here's where we run into the problem that Babylon 5 never got its movie. We only know some of what lead up to the Telepath Wars, and a bit about what happens to Bester specifically after them. The wars themselves (between nominally good-guy rogue telepaths and the Corps) were going to be a movie. Which didn't happen. All we know besides what I just mentioned is that two characters (Lyta, a rogue telepath who was enhanced by the Vorlons, and Lennier, a Minbari Ranger who had been Delenn's aide and had to flee in disgrace at the end of the series after almost leaving Sheridan to die because of jealousy-honor's big with Minbari) die in them. So I have made up my own solution in that Lennier dies in a heroic sacrifice to save telepath civilians.

This inspires a heel-face turn by the new OC being added in this chapter, Melia Reynard. As you'll see, she is former Psi Cop, one of Bester's faction, and she earned the help of Sheridan and Delenn and their alliance when, seeing a Minbari Ranger not even a telepath willing to die for her people, she voluntarily surrendered a Psi Corps ship and browbeat a few others to do the same. As such, instead of being sentenced to life in prison on the sleepers like most ex-Psi Cops, she's given probation, on the condition that she never be permitted onto Earth-controlled worlds again. She goes into exile on Minbar, along with her husband. Like all Psi Cops, she was married to a fellow telepath. Where they're unusual is she and William genuinely love each other, despite having been paired by the Corps based on genetic compatibility. While he's generally well-liked (a P10 diplomatic corps telepath, he's innately gregarious and doesn't have the discomfort with scanning aliens a lot of human telepaths do) even he's starting to feel the strain of being permanently cut off from Earth.

The other important group are the Rangers ( _Anla'shok_ in Minbari), who began as an elite group sworn to the service of the One a thousand years ago. Eventually they came to include representatives of most of the younger races (even the carrion-eating pak'ma'ra and yes, it's not capitalized but it is a proper species name). The Rangers, using ships called White Stars, fought in the Shadow War and now serve the Interstellar Alliance. They answer to Ranger One ( _Anla'shok Na)_ , who at this time is Delenn. Nireal is an unusual Ranger in that he's from the Minbari Warrior Caste (the Minbari have three castes, Warrior, Religious, and Worker.) Most Minbari Rangers were from the Religious Caste. Because of recent fighting between the Warrior and Religious, which resulted in the deaths of Minbari, Nireal feels he has to atone for his caste and to prove he's suitable to be a Ranger.

That ought to cover most of the general ideas. (B5 fans who have read this note, yes, I'm basically ignoring Crusade and other post-telepath war stories.) If you want a more detailed overview, TV Tropes has a page with recaps, and there is a wiki (of course.) But this should be about all you need to know, and anything I didn't cover that's important will come up in the fic itself. And yes, obviously, I've got quite a bit of fic-inspiration for Melia and William, but I will get to it when I get to it.


	9. Chapter Eight

  


Nireal watched as the human doctor, Franklin, left the examination room, followed by the human Ranger who had been introduced as Alisa Beldin. Their castaway, Lisetha, sat on the exam table in the soft gray medical robes she had been given when they arrived on Minbar, looking as calm and collected as anyone could be expected to given the circumstances. Their return flight to Minbar had been a flurry of attempts to communicate, with the White Star's databanks unable to approximate either of the languages she appeared to speak. They had managed to communicate mostly via gestures, with a few words that she grasped, seemingly by context. She did have a strange way of staring with those nightmarish eyes–

Nireal forcibly stopped that train of thought. The eyes were, as far as they could tell, simply a natural feature. It was not his place to ascribe values to other species' traits, let alone judge them. Even the carrion-eating pak'mar'a had their place in the universe. Lisetha had certainly done nothing threatening, other than babble in her exotic language and sometimes startle him with the directness in that burning gaze. Right now, though, it was not fixed on him or anyone, but staring into the middle distance with an expression he would recognize on any species: the beginnings of despair.

The doctor joined the other two observers, Nireal's fellow Ranger with him. It was still somewhat intimidating to be in the presence not only of Sheridan, once called Star-Killer by Nireal's clan and now President of the Interstellar Alliance, but also his wife, _Entil'zha_ of the Rangers, breaker of the Gray Council, chosen of Dukhat, survivor of the Starfire Wheel–Delenn of Mir, with her strange combination of human and Minbari features and the incandescent power of her personality that always seemed like it should be more than her slight frame could contain. Nireal would never forget how during his induction into the Anla'shok she had smiled at him, known his name, spoken with real emotion of his late kinsman Neroon. It was, he though with a sidelong look at the tall, powerful human who was her husband, no wonder that Delenn had turned the most fearsome of human warriors to a leader even the Warrior Caste could respect.

"I thought you were joking, John, when you asked me to come out here," Dr. Franklin was saying. "But you were right. I've never seen anything like her." The human doctor shook his head. "Her organ systems are all more or less where I'd expect them to be in a human and they look like they work the same way, in general. Going by some of the measurements–lungs, heart, some of the bone matrix-I'd guess she's from a planet with slightly lower gravity than Earth or Minbar. She breathes an oxygen-nitrogen mix, at least it obviously doesn't bother her, but I'll be damned if I could say what the carrying molecule for the oxygen is. Her blood's red, but that's not hemoglobin in it. Everything else . . . ."

Sheridan was watching Lisetha through the isolab glass. She didn't seem to notice, but Nireal had the uncanny feeling she was aware of them all, nonetheless. Sheridan seemed half-mesmerized, half-suspicious. "Her skin color? Her eyes? You think they're natural? She was found in a Vorlon lifepod, you don't think it might be something they . . . did to her?"

"The only frame of reference we have for that is–well, you know who that was," Franklin said, and Nireal wondered what that was about. "I can't say for sure, but I don't think so. As far as I can tell, chemically speaking her skin is supposed to be that blue color, and the eyes are some kind of bioluminescence, but the chemicals that are causing it? John, we don't even have _names_ for those kind of molecules. It would take the best minds in xenochemistry months to describe them. She doesn't just look different from any race I've encountered, she's not even made of the same base materials."

"How is that possible?" Delenn moved closer to the glass, her fingers pressing the surface lightly. "If she were so different, wouldn't our atmosphere, our food and water, be toxic to her? She _did_ eat and drink on the White Star, didn't she, Nireal?"

For an instant he was too distracted by the warm, pleased feeling of being addressed directly by Delenn herself he almost forgot to answer. Then he got hold of his thoughts. "We offered her various food, _Entil'zha_. She expressed some preferences–she appeared to like the human orange fruit, though she did not seem to particularly enjoy flarn." Sheridan's lip twitched, but if he had been going to speak, he looked at Delenn and thought better of it. "Our water seemed to pose no difficulty for her. And when we offered her a place to wash she preferred the human method to the Minbari." The notion of immersing oneself in water to cleanse the skin seemed as strange as scrubbing oneself with sand would be, but with as many humans in the Rangers as there were, it was at least an eccentricity he was used to. "She sleeps, but only a little. It's as if–" He caught himself, stopping the speculation.

Ranger Beldin took up his answer for him. "As if she's afraid if she sleeps, she'll wake up somewhere else. I get that much–she's afraid, and very confused."

"But you do not sense anything beyond that?" Delenn's question reminded Nireal of another fact he'd forgotten about Beldin-she was a human telepath.

Beldin shook her head, her fine dark brows furrowing. "It's . . . like listening to half a dozen comm channels at once, where they're all on full volume, which one's getting through varies, and two of them are transmitting in old high Narn." Nireal stifled a laugh, and lowered his eyes when the others looked at him before he could see any chastisement for his inappropriate amusement. "And strong enough to blast out the speakers–I have a feeling she _is_ trying to communicate, but I don't know how to answer."

"And we already asked a Minbari telepath to try," Sheridan said. "Decurne found it even more difficult and couldn't even pick up specific emotions."

"That would make some sense," Franklin said. "Neurological scans indicate her brain structure is closer to a human's than a Minbari's. But apparently, it's different enough."

Sheridan shook his head. "Maybe, given enough time, a computer translation system could sort out her language? Of course how do we communicate to her that we want her to just talk so the computer can hear? I'm not even sure how the system will handle a language with no frame of reference at all. We had some strange first contacts when I was doing surveys, but noting completely out of context"

"Languages," Nireal said before he thought. Sheridan and Franklin both turned to look at him, and he fought the urge to lower his gaze. "I am sorry. I only meant, she has attempted what sounds like two separate languages, but neither one was something the computer on the White Star could identify."

Delenn was still watching their alien guest, a thoughtful, distant expression in her eyes. "Do you think, Alisa, that perhaps a stronger human telepath might be able to make better progress?"

Alisa Belden shrugged, looking uneasy. "I don't know for certain. It's not that she's blocking me. They'd have to be someone much stronger than me who's comfortable, experienced, even, with alien minds. I was never tested by . . . the old ways, but I'd guess this would need to be . . . well, an old-system P10, at least."

"Yes, you were found on Babylon 5, weren't you?" Delenn said, and Nireal understood why Alisa seemed to stand a bit straighter and glow just a little. To have Delenn herself remember something about you never failed to make you feel special. "If a human would be more effective, and a stronger telepath would have a better chance at success, then, perhaps, John, we do have an option."

Nireal had no idea what she meant, and for a moment it didn't seem that Sheridan did either. Then the human's eyes widened, and he began shaking his head in the gesture humans used for 'no.'

"Delenn, that's crazy." Nireal couldn't believe even her husband would dare say that, but Delenn seemed imperturbed. "They may be . . . guests, of a sort, but even if _he_ was completely innocent, _she_ –"

"Had you to speak on her behalf," Delenn said mildly. "Because she stood down, at great personal cost, and because she asked for the help of the Rangers–"

"Because just like all the rest of her jack-booted friends, she valued telepath lives over anything else, even going to prison," Sheridan said. "Now, she might not have been the worst of them, but she sure as hell was guilty of everything she plead to and more. Never mind I'm still not convinced she _doesn't_ know what happened to Bester."

"You mean–" Franklin had apparently caught on as well. "Is she really here on Minbar? I saw the trials, but I sort of figured that would never work out. Or understood why you offered EarthGov the deal in the first place."

"Because," Delenn said, in a quiet tone that somehow brooked no arguments, "in the last battle of the telepath conflict, she chose to ask for our help, knowing what it would cost her. And when . . . ." She paused. "When Lennier stopped . . . when he stopped the destruction of the civilian telepaths by the rebels, she surrendered her ship and herself and demanded others do the same, in respect for his sacrifice. Since she accepted exile, she has never gone back on the agreement or misused her abilities. Have we not all done things that we wished, in retrospect, we had not done? Which hurt many who did not deserve it?"

Nireal could not imagine that Delenn had committed any such sins, but clearly her words resonated with Sheridan Star-Killer. "And he was a diplomatic telepath. If anyone's used to scanning aliens . . . . And you're right. Besides, there was that business with the rogue on Babylon 5. She kept her word then." He gave his wife a very crooked smile, one Nireal did not understand, but which precipitated a strange little smirk from her.

Alisa Belden, though, had a very strange look on her face, as if she were struggling to contain a very un-Ranger-like expression of feeling. "I can't blame you for trying," she said, "and I've got nothing against him, but with respect, _Entil'Zha_ , I can't go ask them myself and I won't be here when she is. I know she can't do anything to me now, but . . . ."

"I would not expect you to," Delenn said. "For a matter such as this, it is only appropriate I go myself." Her gaze turned back to their guest and Nireal looked with her.

Lisetha was watching them, the glowing eyes turned towards the glass. He could almost _feel_ the urge to speak, and the despair she was fighting against the longer she tried to communicate. She looked away, her gaze falling to her hands, which curled in her lap in a palm-up position that reminded Nireal of a desperate, pleading kind of prayer.

"No," Delenn said softly, "I do not think we can overlook any chance at all."

Melia Reynard's last bonsai from Earth was dying, and there was nothing left she could think of to do. The tiny juniper had brown tips to its needles, and she adjusted the microclimate control for what seemed like the thousandth time, hoping this did the trick. The cost and paperwork involved in bringing Earth plants to Minbar was bad enough on its own, but now the shippers and growers had started to know that orders from William Fairfax were really destined for his wife and suddenly plants and supplies were mysteriously embargoed or back ordered.

Even they seemed determined to make her pay.

/ _A pine tree, rugged on a cliff, overlooking the blue-gray oceans and black rock shore of her childhood home in Nova Scotia/_

The p'cast was so vivid she wanted to sink into the picture, but instead she just smiled to herself and sent, _I could almost imagine I was there._ In spite of herself the last spiraled with another whirlpool of sadness and longing and she slammed it back into its box before William caught too much of it. He wouldn't pry if she asked him not to, and of course he _couldn't_ if she didn't let him anyway. Nearly twenty years of marriage and shared minds as well as shared exile meant their thoughts were deeply in sync as a rule and their communication nearly instantaneous and absolute.

But he was still a P10, and she was still a P12. And that meant there were still things that he never needed to see.

"Still no luck?" William was leaning against the doorjamb to what passed for their living room. Minbari homes were not, as a rule, laid out in a way humans found logical. At least they'd been able to adjust the beds to Earth standard. Lying at a steep angle with a thin mat for a pillow and no blankets was bad enough just for sleep. How the Minbari conducted any marital relations with that setup was something she was happier not knowing.

"I think it just misses home soil, home water, home air . . . ." She sighed, setting down the tiny scissors.

"I know how it feels." With that came a burst of _/love/affection/no regrets/_ , which was comforting but not enough to stop her own swirl of _/guilt/homesick/mother lode of guilt/. "_ It'll adapt, love."

"I hope so." She hoped she'd adapt too, someday. The strange crystalline cities, the quarter of the planet covered by its northern polar cap, and most of all the Minbari, who were unfailingly polite, helpful, and . . . distant. Sheridan and the few human Rangers willing to assist them when they arrived had assured her it was nothing personal, it was simply how the Minbari were, but it was one more reminder that this was not, and never truly would be, home.

_Beats the hell out of a jail cell in Geneva and a lifetime on the sleepers._ She hadn't realized she'd fully formed the thought until William was in her mind, warm and reassuring as the real arm around her shoulders. That would have been genuine hell, able to see and speak to him but never really _be_ with him like this. Assuming they'd allowed even limited visitation. She had never tried to visit her colleagues who were not lucky enough to have the leader of the Interstellar Alliance to speak for them and to offer Earth a way to get rid of at least one troublesome telepath. Even if EarthGov had allowed it, she doubted very much her incarcerated fellows would have wanted to see her. Even in the fog of the sleepers in the courtroom, even knowing they were similarly crippled, she'd known what they were thinking as she was the only PsiCop to reply "Guilty" to all the charges laid against her.

_Coward. Liar. Traitor._

She still heard them in her dreams. The worst part was, she sometimes believed them.

Even the door chimes on Minbar were considerate and unobtrusive, if such a thing were possible, the sound a shimmer of light might make passing through crystal if it could make a noise. Melia blinked and glanced at William, who frowned.

"I wasn't expecting anyone." Then in the microsecond after the words aloud William p'cast _/apology/embarrassment/reassurance_ even as she replied _/understanding/amuseument/_ because, after all, William did have work still, teaching Minbari telepaths about human minds and learning as much as he could about theirs. Even some of the human Rangers were curious, sometimes, and William was approachable enough they could overcome lifelong conditioning to fear telepaths. _He_ did have the odd visitor now and again. No one would be coming to see her.

She felt his surprise before she heard the voice at the door and scrambled to her feet, fumbling for her gloves more out of habit than fear their visitor would be offended by their absence. Most teeps had, she was told, abandoned their gloves along with their pins, but while she nor longer wore the badge that she'd been so proud of all her life, the gloves were simply too much to give up. They were only a placebo–there wasn't a P12 alive who could really be prevented from scanning by a thin layer of synthgrip or leather–but it was her armor, and she wasn't going to walk about unprotected.

" _Entil'Zha_ Delenn," William said, p'casting a warning as he came back into the living room. "This is an honor. And a surprise."

"The honor is mine," Delenn said, with that serene smile that always made Melia want to scan and see what in the universe could be behind such apparent tranquility. Delenn pressed her fingers together and bowed her head in the traditional greeting of the Minbari religious caste, and William returned the gesture. Melia only nodded. "I apologize for the intrusion, but a situation has arisen which we hoped that you might be able to help us with."

Of course, that _William_ could help with. Melia tried to suppress a twinge of resentment. Carefully, she expanded her constant passive scan, listening for Delenn's moods and surface thoughts. She didn't particularly like scanning non-humans, but then, with her hair, her softened, pink-tinged skin tone, Delenn wasn't entirely alien, either. The precise details of how that transformation had occurred had never been made public, or as far as Psi Corps could determine even discussed in private with EarthGov. But a deep scan to find out, even if scanning alien minds was something she enjoyed, would have been unforgivably rude and ungrateful, likely to get them thrown off Minbar entirely. And while it wasn't home, it was better than wandering space like ancient Earth traveling folk, never welcome anywhere.

What she sensed on the surface was worry. Not directed at them, she noted, even as William silently shared the same observation. Something had set the normally-serene Delenn on edge, but the emotion wasn't tinged with fear or anxiety, as if it were some kind of external threat.

"Of course," he said aloud, something he remembered was necessary far more easily than Melia did at times. "If I can, I'd be happy to help."

"I hope you are able to," Delenn said. "One of our White Stars discovered something very unusual while patrolling the border with what used to be the Vorlon Empire."

The astonishment from William was so loud a p'cast Melia was surprised Delennn couldn't sense it, too. "Not . . . something of theirs?" Melia felt the same ripple of memory, of being mentally touched by a mind literally beyond human comprehension,, and she glyphed an image of a quiet seashore, William's own mental retreat, and felt the steadying sense of gratitude in return.

"Not a something," Delenn said. "A someone." And the thought that accompanied the words was so clear, Melia was almost certain Delenn had done it on purpose, knowing they'd be passive-scanning, though how a mundane alien could create such a clear visual it was practically a glyph she didn't know. But she caught it, she knew William did, and in almost the same instant she was grabbing for her gloves. Because on seeing what awaited them, there was no chance they weren't going.

Melia stood with her hands folded behind her, back to the wall, a posture she'd adopted so many times before it was pure habit. But those had been interrogations, waiting her turn in a game of good-cop bad-cop, or observing an interrogation and scanning as she listened. Outside the isolab she could sense Sheridan, Delenn, and Franklin watching, and the Minbari Ranger who had been introduced as Nireal and who, like all Minbari, had shown no indication aloud or mentally that he was afraid or repulsed by her. Maybe he didn't know.

William was standing near the strange alien, but not directly in front of her, not a dominating posture that might have been a threat. She had looked up at them both as they entered, and even with her shields automatically in place, Melia had felt a strange pulse of energy both like and unlike a scan. She had resisted the urge to try and listen, though. William was the expert with alien minds, and he had his own training and system.

And interests. She kept her expression impassive, another habit of a lifetime's training, but inwardly she was almost laughing at how desperately eager he was. First contact was not something one got to experience often even in the diplomatic corps. Let alone with an alien who was also a telepath, which she certainly had to be. It was like being in a room with a strong double digit on full passive scan, with a weight to the energy that was unlike any Melia recalled experiencing, almost an atmospheric pressure system. The cop part of her was suspicious, but some other instinct, a deeper sense about fellow teeps, was not pinging a danger warning. If anything, there was something strangely warm and positive about her, not quite like anything she'd ever sensed before.

William smiled, and the alien woman returned the gesture, though not as openly. Then he laid his hand on his chest. "Hello. My name is William." He was projecting at the same time, sliding against the strange flow of energy, friendly, welcoming, and there was a tentative response.

And a twinge in that strange flow of energy that Melia recognized–patient, frustrated. The feelings were there. But the alien only kept that strange, thin smile and mimicked the hand-to-heart gesture. "Lisetha," she said, and then, a tiny furrow appearing between her brows, "Reli'set'harana." At the same time, the energy seemed to cave in on itself just a trace.

William's smile grew warmer. "Reli'set'harana," and he did a better job than Melia thought she would mimicking the odd, glottal-stop-like pauses. "Lisetha. I've never heard a name like that. He was looking for inroads, she realized, slipping along the waves of energy. "I'm a human. This is my wife, Melia." _Stay calm but keep your wards soft._ "She's human, too. So is President Sheridan," and he both pointed and glyphed, "and Dr. Franklin. Ranger Nireal, who found you, and _Entil'Zha_ Delenn, are Minbari. Do your people have a name?"

The energy (Melia couldn't really think of it as wall, walls did not bend and flux) wavered, moved against William's delicate probes. Lisetha looked away, her eyes seeming to dim, then she looked back up. "Chiss."

Melia looked to where the others were watching intently to see if they understood any better than she did. Delenn met her gaze (of course) and shook her head just slightly. It meant nothing to them, either, then. William, meanwhile, looked as if that made perfect sense. "Were the Chiss allies of the Vorlons? Is that how you came to be with them?"

Now he wasn't really glyphing so much as weaving a series of images, what he knew of Vorlon ships, the concept of beings working together, and finally one image that was clear and solid as it was his own memory, a brief glimpse in a station docking bay of a strange, bulky shape, the Vorlon Ambassador Kosh, and a whisper in both their minds: _You have forgotten why you are._

There was a flare of something, recognition, and the alien woman held out her hand, reaching for William's. Never breaking his gaze, he pulled off his right glove and took it.

And was dragged into a whirlwind. Melia felt him lose his grip, plunging into a rapport, and ignoring a muffled shout from Dr. Franklin beyond the glass she yanked off her gloves and lunged forward, grabbing for their joined hands and pulling down her shields, ready for a diving probe into the tangle of thoughts as she made contact with bare skin–

_Cold, cold, bitter space-cold, taste of a hot spiced drink, scents of flowers and icy air, swirling fish-like lace creatures beneath the thin ice of a pond, childhood playing, curve of smooth bone under her blue-skinned fingers, pieces on a game board, a fighter that danced the stars, tiny sister tiny brother, Papa, Mother, notes in an alien key, swirled script in shining ink, a game board, gold wins, men and women at the door, white bands sewn in black, rough cloth on her skin, sick-sweet smoke, the chair is far too big, a moon, one-eyed, a woman who sobs in her mind, screaming ships in her dreams, a beam of light, a game board half-played, a man, the taste of strong wine, fingers in her hair, a child, screams of the ships in her dreams, a child in his arms, his heart beneath her hand, swirl of stars, the ships screaming–_

_voices_

" _we are the keepers""someday you will take my place""know your duty""rise and sit among us, High Councilor of the Second""honor his name""not with them!""not as sick as you all think""can you understand me""the Force surrounds us""so alien a creature""it is with you""that one is meant to be touched""defense of our people, all our people""this insanity you and the Eighth""just look""the machine says you cannot be""if my husband is prepared to take me""may you both prosper""what hope can there be for him""this is your first-daughter""lost with all hands""leave this to others""there's no one""Master, protect–"_

" _Serhal!"_

_A scream. A flash. A child crying._

" _Forgive me."_

_Ships screaming in the night._

_Ships screaming._

" _Thrawn, remember, I love you. Forgive me. Remember, please, remember I love you. I love–"_

_Ships screaming, and white, white–_

_Light. Floating in light._

_A voice._

" _Who_ are _you?"_

Melia seized them both, and dragged down.

The ocean was crashing in her ears and she opened her eyes. It had worked, and the three of them stood on a rocky promontory looking at a bay. Dusk-gray waves of the North Atlantic beat on the shore, turning the rocks black. A lone scrub pine clawed its way out of the rock as it had all her life, defying the brutal conditions as it twisted up, alive, where nothing should have grown.

William was shaking his head as if to clear it, but here it would be more than Melia could manage to offer extra support. Lisetha was looking around in a far more calculated way, that strange energy that felt like a force field still around here, even here. Her fingers toyed with something around her neck, a medallion that flickered in memory-sunlight.

Finally she turned to Melia, frowning more as if she were confused than angry. "This place," and her gesture encompassed all their surroundings. "This–is you?"

Her accent was strange and soft, but either she was speaking perfectly serviceable English or Melia was hearing her alien language that way. At the moment, which didn't matter much. "This is my touchstone," she said, and it _sounded_ like English to her own ears, even though Lisetha nodded as if she understood. "Every telepath is trained to have one _–_ a mental safe space we can always retreat to no matter what's going on outside. I'm a P12. Mine's pretty complex."

"Good thing, too." William was rubbing at his temples. "I don't know what exactly happened there, but I don't know if I could have figured out how to get us out of it."

Lisetha looked faintly bemused as she studied the tree, the rocks, and then, with an odd sort of determination, as if merely looking required bracing herself, at the ocean. "This is based on a real place?"

"Home," Melia said, and in spite of herself her voice caught. "Back on Earth. I was born in a village just up that way," though she'd never tried to walk there in her mental retreat. First it had been unnecessary and too complicated, now the thought was painful. The bright houses were barely visible in the distance and the single church steeple stabbed hard into the blue sky. "I used to climb up to this tree and sit here, watching the water. It's vivid enough in my mind, I can always envision it and come back here, and then I can find my way out."

William had turned to Lisetha. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "I didn't mean to cause-well, what just happened. Scanning non-humans is always a risk, but I should have been more careful. I can tell a lot of that was painful for you."

"It was my fault as well," she said quietly. "I was trying so hard to reach you. I tried to make the girl hear me, but she couldn't sort it out. The Force is very strange here, though I suppose it would have to be, so far from home."

"Where is your home?" William asked. "The Rangers found you at the edge of Vorlon space, in a Vorlon ship. Are you from within their borders? Beyond?"

She stared at him for a moment, and then she laughed. It was a brittle sound, as if she weren't accustomed to allowing herself some kind of outburst. "Beyond. Far beyond. I don't even know how far. I don't know, truly, how I came here, besides–there was a gateway, a door opened across hyperspace. They were trying to pull something through. The aliens–the dark ones–had strange technology, living technology, and they were threading their way into our people, poisoning them, stealing them, and other races, too, people the Ascendancy rules and should protect." She closed those glowing eyes and shuddered. "There was no time to wait for help. I called, but they would never have come in time. I had to destroy the gate, but my weapons had no effect. My . . . there was . . . ." She shook her head hard.

"I remember a name," William said softly, shrugging off a warning poke from Melia. "Serhal."

Lisetha nodded, her eyes still closed, the energy she seemed to exude chilled. "Ser'halis, my aide, my protector, my friend. He came with me, but they destroyed his fighter. I think. I can't remember. But I knew I had to stop them. I flew into the gate, as they were trying to bring something through. I could feel the pressure tearing the fighter apart. I was sure I was going to die. Only someone else was trying to stop them from the other side. Someone powerful. As the gate collapsed on itself they caught me, and I remember . . . ."

The shudder became a tremor, full-body shaking, and William moved forward, put a hand on her shoulder. Melia didn't bother trying to stop him; in here, it was impossible for the mental contact to get any closer as their "skin" wasn't exactly real anyway. "You didn't die," William said quietly. He could be remarkably comforting, Melia knew from her own experience. Some things psi rating just didn't measure. "The Vorlons found you."

"Vorlons . . . yes." She looked away again, staring out at the sea. "I wasn't sure I _was_ alive. I thought, perhaps this is death, this is the Force, these are the ancestors or the gods or . . . I don't know. But they were kind, in their fashion, they healed me, humored my questions even though they didn't answer them, and finally, one of them . . . helped me. He let me reach out. The Force is strange here, I can't stretch my mind so far, but with his help, I could reach . . . I could find them." She slumped a bit, and William steadied her. Melia shoved aside another mental round of regret, how good a parent he could be, how naturally that sort of thing came to him.

The whisper seemed to come from the air around them now, an echo from the maelstrom of memories that had pulled them in. _"Thrawn, remember, I love you, remember that . . . ."_

Melia shivered. "Your husband?"

Lisetha didn't seem to hear her for a moment, then she nodded slowly. "My husband. It was always so odd, he never had any trace of the Force himself, but while I struggled to reach my Master or my daughter, once I had help I could always find him. But since I woke and found these Vorlons gone even he is too far away." She drew a deep breath and tried to stand a bit straighter. "I don't even know what's happened to them since the last time. I don't know how to begin to find them. I didn't even know where I was." She looked around again, though not at either of them. "Now I know, and I have even less idea how I'm going to get home."

William glanced at Melia, and she didn't need to be a teep to know what he was thinking. _How or if?_ Still, some things they could leave to Sheridan and Delenn to explain. "You mentioned the Force," William said. "What do you mean?"

For the first time, Lisetha looked less stressed or worried than perturbed. "The Force," she said, unhelpfully. "It is an energy field created by life, by the universe itself. It is what allows us to speak mind to mind, to sense other beings, to create–all this!" She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed Melia's mental seascape. "You are humans, yes? Surely you've heard of the Force. Master Aleishia was the one who told _me_ , and she is . . . was . . . human. I never knew my abilities were anything but . . . a strange sort of luck."

"Wait," Melia said, decided to set aside bizarre metaphysics for a moment, "you have humans where you come from? Are you sure?"

Now the look Lisetha gave her was pure incredulity. "I think I would recognize humans when I see them," she said. "Though they were strange to my people when Aleishia and I met, my husband now is a leader among them. My daughter has known more human friends than of our kind." Something in her voice caught and she turned away again. Melia felt something clench in her own stomach and a sympathetic pang from William.

"The Vorlons have known of humans for a long time," William said sotto voce, and Melia stifled an exasperated sigh. Whispering didn't do much good when you were literally within each other's minds. "Maybe . . . they're like her, people the Vorlons found?"

Melia understood the impulse, though, and kept her own voice low. "She said something about a gate through hyperspace, and the humans were there, on her side of it, before the Vorlons took her. I have a very bad feeling she's from a lot farther away than just the old Vorlon Empire."

The futility of whispering was demonstrated when Lisetha said, without turning around, "I know I'm very, very far from home. But more than just my family, my home . . . when I came through to here, something was left behind in my galaxy. The damage I did slowed their progress–they couldn't bring help from this place any more–but they were building. The one left behind is growing stronger again, gaining allies. My husband knows, and he _will_ try to fight them, but I don't know if anything will be enough. If I can get back . . . if I can help in any way . . . is there anything you can do? If you know about these Vorlons, do you know about these dark ones, too? Have you fought them?" There was something in her voice now, not just urgent, passionate. "Billions could die."

_Ships screaming in her mind . . . ._

"Show me what these dark ones look like," Melia said, though somewhere deep down, she knew. She, and every other psi rated over 10 on Mars, had heard that scream before, and she had seen in Al's mind what ships were escorting the kidnaped 'weapons components.' Earth had done its best to keep the war hidden, and Clark had nearly succeeded, but the Corps knew.

The image Lisetha formed in her mind, black on infinite black, screamed in the void, and somewhere within it Melia imagined she could hear the mind of whatever poor soul was melded into it, brain and body fused with the ship until any will, any personhood, was drained away.

She opened her eyes without realizing she'd closed them. William only looked puzzled, but he was a P10. There were things she had never been allowed to tell him then and had never told him since, because even when it no longer mattered, there were nightmares she didn't want to share. That day on Mars was one of them.

"Come on," she said, grabbing William's hand and Lisetha's. "We have to go back. If you can't understand us out there, try to keep this link open. Maybe we can figure out how to translate."

"I think it will be all right," Lisetha said. "It's all a bit more dramatic, but the Force was a great help when I learned to speak Basic from Aleishia." She frowned again. "You certainly _look_ like the humans I know."

"Yeah, on the list of things to worry about . . . ." Melia centered on her touchstone, and stepped out, pulling them with her. As usual, there was a moment of disorientation, the sense that the isolab was not the real world after the familiar confines of her mental space, but she reminded herself she _was_ standing in a medlab on Minbar, she was holding William's hand, and that of the alien woman, Lisetha, and they were being watched by several people. A glance at the clock told her that as usual, far less time had passed than she thought.

"What happened?" Sheridan had entered the isolab, but was pushed aside by Dr. Franklin and his ubiquitous medical scanner. "Were you able to find anything?"

"Oh, more than we bargained for," Melia said, resisting the urge to swat Franklin's hand aside. Her vitals must have been normal as he moved on to William and then to Lisetha. "She is definitely not from anywhere around here."

"And she was with the Vorlons," William said, though he was watching Lisetha worriedly as she blinked, clinging to the edge of the exam table as if uncertain of her legs' stability. "She said when she came through a . . . a gate in hyperspace, they found her, saved her. One of them–"

"Kosh," and Melia wasn't the only one who jumped at the sound. "That was his name," Lisetha continued, as if she didn't even notice the stares. "I saw him in their minds."

"You can understand us now?" Delenn said. She stepped forward, the Minbari Ranger looking as if he had to struggle not to place himself between his leader and the alien.

Lisetha nodded slowly. "It is not the first time I have had assistance from the Force, or whatever you might call it here, in learning a language. And I believe Kosh . . . told me things. When I was drifting, before your ship found me, the pod I was in . . . sang to me." Her gaze fixed on Nireal. "At least I can now thank you properly for finding me. I owe you a debt."

"It is my duty as a Ranger," Nireal said. "I am grateful to have been of service, Li-how shall we address you? Do you have a title?"

For some reason, that prompted a sound like a stifled laugh. "If you must, I believe Lady Lisetha would be most appropriate," she said. "That is a more complex question than we have time to explain now."

"No kidding," Melia said. "Before we get into xenolinguistics, there's a bigger issue, Sheridan."

"Ms Reynard," Sheridan started to say, but she cut him off.

"It's why the Vorlons helped her, and what she was fighting before she came here," Melia continued. It was so easy, falling back into the old tone, the old posture, the sheer frustration of dealing with mundanes. But at least the old rules no longer applied.

Projecting to mundanes was usually not easy, but Sheridan, somehow, was more open. Almost like reaching for Lisetha's mind, she thought, but she put musings about Vorlons aside and shoved the image at him just as Lisetha had shown it to her. Even secondhand the scream sent a feeling like claws down her spine and she saw his eyes widen, his jaw go slack.

"John?" Delenn's tone was soft, concerned, and at the corner of her vision Melia saw Franklin moving for her, a hard look on his face.

Sheridan, though, held up a restraining and, and he stared unblinking for a moment at her. "Shadows," he finally said, and she heard Delenn gasp.

"Shadows," Melia said. "Only a small number, but it sure looks like they were up to the same tricks. Her people and her home, wherever they are, are in a galaxy's worth of hurt."

"They found a way across intergalactic space," Sheridan said. "Well, why not, if Thirdspace exists, why wouldn't the Shadows have tried to do something similar?"

"And if they crossed such a distance, and were cut off," Delenn said, "they would not have gone with the others. They would have no way of knowing. In Valen's name . . . ."

"You know these creatures?" The reaction may have stunned the others, but it galvanized Lisetha. She was on her feet, moving past Melia to stand directly before Sheridan. "You know what they are. Do you know how to fight them?"

Slowly, he shook his head, not a denial, but disbelief. "Know them, yes. They were First Ones, like the Vorlons. We fought them, as best we could, but eventually they left with the others, beyond the Rim. And even if we could tell you how to fight them . . . ." He blinked and something in his eyes softened as he looked at Lisetha, pity and regret. "Without the Vorlons, or Lorien, or the other First Ones, I don't know how we'd even begin to try to send you home with the knowledge."

It wasn't a crumpling, or denial, or any reaction Melia could even sense. Lisetha seemed to be gathering something in herself, dignity or pride or simple mental discipline that would be the envy of any Corps trainee. When she spoke, her tone was calm and steady, but her fingers were absently plucking at an invisible thread on her hospital gown's cuff. "You mean," she said carefully, "you do not have a way to send me back."

"There must be something," Nireal said. "We cannot simply take this knowledge and do nothing. We can't leave her here now that we know what her people are fighting."

"This is technology beyond anything we could have for a million years." Delenn was shaking her head, more in disbelief than anything else.

"It isn't that we don't want to help you," Sheridan said, his tone softer. "Especially since we know, better than I can explain, what you're fighting. But the kind of technology that brought you here is so advanced, we couldn't replicate it if we tried."

Lisetha listened, her strange alien features fixed in a mask of perfect composure. "Then I am trapped here," she said, and her tone was perfectly calm, too.

Sheridan didn't reply, turning to Delenn, and even with only passive scanning the sincere regret from both of them was so palpable it was practically solid. "I am sorry," Delenn said softly.

"It is not your fault." Lisetha turned away, gracefully waving aside Dr. Franklin, who had moved solicitously to support her. "If it cannot be helped, then it cannot be helped," she said, almost too quietly for them to hear, staring at the blinking, meaningless lights of the medical equipment.

And Melia nearly doubled over, grabbing for William's arm even as she saw his face contort with emotion that wasn't his own, and it was all she could do to shield them both even as she waved the others away. They were mundanes, they could not possibly know, but it would have taken telepaths stronger than a P10, stronger even than a P12, to block the wave of anger, grief, and despair that exploded from Lisetha even as her face remained an impassive mask.

Nireal paced the long walkway through the meditative garden. The vantage point, overlooking a cascade of water down the crystalline cliff face that glittered in the moonslight, was a place of contemplation, of peace, but now mental discipline was eluding him as much as sleep had.

The ancient enemy. The Shadows. Somewhere, far across the stars, some of them still rose from the darkness to sow chaos and disorder in the name of progress. And he, a Ranger, could do nothing to stop them.

It was a double shame. When they had come here, the last time, the truly final time, when Sheridan and Delenn had sent them and the Vorlons from the galaxy, the Warrior Caste had not acquitted themselves as the should have. It was not as great a shame as their more recent actions, as fighting other Minbari, but it was wrong. The Star-Riders Clan had gained honor, true, by the actions of their kinsman Neroon. But when he had stepped into the Starfire Wheel and chosen to die in Delenn's stead, he had also cried out a conversion, had claimed victory for the Religious Caste. And the Religious had been the leaders against the Shadows.

As a Ranger, it was his duty to fight the darkness. To walk in those places others would not enter. As a Warrior, it was his duty to defend his people and those under their protection. And it was his crew, his ship, which had found Lady Lisetha and discovered this darkness her people suffered.

And he had seen the pain in her eyes when she realized that she could never return to her home.

It was not right. It was not just. A warrior who battled the darkness as she had should not be condemned to exile. They should be reunited with their people, or they should be permitted an honorable, warrior's death, to walk in the place where no shadows fall until they were reunited with their loved ones, or reborn. As a Ranger, it was his duty to combat injustice.

And there was nothing he could do.

"You cannot sleep, Nireal?"

The voice startled him, and he was somehow not surprised to see Delenn watching him. How long she'd been doing so, he couldn't say. He nodded, though, eyes downcast. "Yes, _Entil'Zha_. Lady Lisetha's situation troubles me, and so I thought to walk, and meditate."

"I as well. Perhaps if we walk together, we will find an answer."

When one received an invitation such as that from _Anla'shok Na_ , one did not question it, and so Nireal fell in step beside her. He was silent for a time, as was she, until finally he asked, "Was it truly so terrible, fighting the Shadows?"

"Yes," Delenn said simply. "It was a time of great pain for many beings. The thought that somewhere, no matter how far away, others are experiencing such pain is . . . troubling."

"Yes, _Entil'Zha._ " He considered that for a moment. "It must be very painful for Lady Lisetha as well. To think that her people must be suffering, despite what she has sacrificed."

"True," said Delenn. "And even, I think, it is sad for the creature causing the pain. In the last battle, at Coriana VI, the Shadows left with the other races. They could have gone long before–they all could have–but they feared being alone." She shook her head slowly. "To be trapped so far from all of its kind when they have gone beyond . . . it would be tragic."

It should have surprised him to hear Delenn speak of compassion for one of the ancient enemy, but somehow, when she spoke in those tones, it did not. After all, despite the legends and the stories of Valen's day and the war long ago, the Shadows were not monsters or gods. They were beings, like any others. Was it really so strange to think they could feel fear?

Yes. It was very strange indeed. But Delenn was wise and learning from her was part of his training as a Ranger.

"Are you certain that nothing can be done? For her, or to help her people?" He thought of that look again, how the telepaths had tried to brush aside questions as she clearly did not wish to share her pain with any of them, but how clear it was. A husband . . . a daughter . . . what the telepaths had relayed, what she'd confirmed, all the people she had left behind . . . to be cut off like that not by vocation or choice but by accident . . .

"I cannot think what," Delenn said. "The Shadows and the Vorlons both had technology we could not hope to replicate."

"But we are able to build White Stars," Nireal said, seizing on the notion as it occurred to him. "They are in part Vorlon technology. Perhaps there is something in the ships themselves which could give us an answer."

But Delenn was shaking her head. "They are made with the technology the Vorlons permitted us to share," she said, her tone suggesting the thought had already occurred to her. "Opening gates that traverse galaxies? That is far beyond what they offered."

"There must be _something_ ," Nireal said. When he saw the look, not judgmental but almost pitying, he said, "I can see her pain, _Entil'Zha_. How can we ask her to abandon all hope?"

"If we do not have the means to help," Delenn countered, "would it not be more cruel to pretend that we did? False hope is not a kindness, Nireal. If there were something left–"

"I'm not so sure there isn't."

The voice startled them both. Melia Reynard was standing on the path behind them. She had the look of someone who had not slept in some time, and a bleariness that Nireal associated with long hours of study.

"Interesting thing about computers," she continued as she came towards them. "They don't just have software, they had hardware. And people with access can get things put in that hardware, things a simple memory wipe won't remove. Things that some of us might never have felt like mentioning, because who knows when you're going to need access like that. EarthGov put a lot of computers a lot of places."

"And you know these 'things' that were put in?" Nireal wasn't sure if Delenn sounded more suspicious or amused.

"I do," Reynard said agreeably. Too much so, if Nireal's reading of human vocal tones was accurate. "I was using some to poke around. Not that don't believe you or your husband, of course, but EarthGov had a lot of weird projects back in the day. I thought one of them might help."

"Did you find something?" It was probably a rude outburst, but Nireal couldn't help it.

And Reynard didn't seem to care. "Not in those files. But I decided to poke around closer to home, so to speak, and I found something, something in the systems from Babylon 5, that sounds awfully interesting indeed." Her bright brown eyes fixed directly on Delenn. "Speaking of ancient technology: tell me about this Great Machine on Epsilon 3."


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So another long one! And yes, even though it's pretty clear already, get out your tissues or crying towels. For anyone wondering, there just isn't space here, I promise, Gir will be back and Thrawn will be discussing proper handling of prisoners and Chiss rules for naming kids after dead relatives (and how that's now a little awkward) soon. Also, new background material draw-I don't PLAY SWTOR myself (I'd need to buy a new computer and move somewhere with non-satellite internet) but I've been watching a few playthroughs/cut scenes on Youtube (from chapter one on Hutta all the way through Eternal Throne.) One poster, suicune2001, played through as a male Chiss Imperial Agent, making decisions mostly based on "What would Thrawn do?" And doing a pretty good job. So no matter what Bioware claims (Jedi, schmedi) as far as I'm concerned that playthrough is 'canon' in this universe, with my own 'after the end' ending explaining what happened to that Chiss outlander's descendants. Mostly it'll play into some deep backstory–why the Chiss have turned into isolationist xenophobes, for example, but it also explains some things for my story, like where Lisetha and Thelea's lightsaber crystals came from. FTR: I picked Lisetha's crystal color (gold) long before any of the games were written. Possibly before Bioware existed. Also, if the impression is I'm ship-teasing Thelea/Stent here, well...*evilgrin*

  


 

Thelea didn't know what was worse: being forced to sit in the copilot's seat or the awkward quiet in the cockpit and the passenger compartment behind them. After pointlessly checking the instruments again (the co-pilot was even more superfluous in hyperspace) she gave Stent a sideways glance.

"Did Father ask for you to come, or did you volunteer?" She spoke Cheunh. Some of the troopers in this particular squad might understand, but their passenger wouldn't and even without the Force to monitor him she'd have bet hard currency Horn was eavesdropping.

"I requested the assignment when I knew it was available." He continued to monitor the controls, and the annoying part was she could tell it wasn't evasion. He simply took his duty that seriously. "You are, whether you wish to discuss it or not, the Syndic's first-daughter, and you are in right if not in fact Aristocra of the Second Family. While the troopers from the 501st will of course protect you at the cost of their own lives if necessary, you are entering a very dangerous situation in hostile territory. I'm sure the Syndic has every confidence in you, but if I am able to provide additional security assistance then it's sensible for me to do so."

"I think it's excessive," she said, and as if she could hear Aleishia chiding her or see her father's pointed look, she moderated, "but I appreciate the sentiment." Stent nodded, but didn't reply, so after a moment she said, "So I take it you aren't . . . displeased I told Father I wasn't prepared to discuss your request at this time?"

Now he looked over at her, brow furrowed just slightly. "The Syndic gave me the impression you had rejected the offer. Not tabled the discussion. And no. While I'm certainly not happy you did not indicate an interest, I am not entitled to your consideration. You _are_ highborn, and it was likely an overreach on my part. Regardless of circumstances."

_Gods and ancestors and little green nerfs,_ she thought wearily. _First Rurik, now Stent . . . I appreciate the belated parenting, Va'ti, but my life would be less complicated if you'd stop helping me there!_ "Well, Father was interpreting things his own way again, if that's the impression he gave you. And it really has nothing to do with you, least of all our relative birth. I just . . . I can't consider any offers, no matter how reasonable, right now. There's the war, there's the fact that neither Father nor I is in a position to return to our own homeworld, and I have . . . other responsibilities. And unfinished business."

"You've been too long among the humans, Lady Thelea," he said. "You do not owe me an explanation. I mistook recreation for deeper interest, and in my defense, a closer alliance with your family would of course be an honor. Anyone would have been tempted. If the Syndic felt it was appropriate to state matters more finally, he clearly disapproves more finally than you do as well."

"What did I say about that Lady business?" She stopped herself; rhetorical questions were another holdover from spending most of her adult life with humans and other species. "And Father doesn't disapprove of you. If he did, you wouldn't be head of his Phalanx. He's just overprotective where I'm concerned these days. To be fair, I sometimes give him reason to be."

"Perhaps he also wants to consider your preference," Stent countered. "The stories some in the Phalanx still tell suggest your mother did not choose him out of political motivation."

"No, it wasn't a political match at heart," Thelea said softly. She doubted whatever rumors still circulated among those loyal to her father and those who'd fled her own family even halfway conveyed the depth of feeling she'd seen in her father's expression when he'd stared at her mother's apparition, reaching out in a futile attempt to touch her before she vanished. No one would have _believed_ Mitth'raw'nuruodo could look, even for an instant, as if half his heart had been ripped away. In her own admittedly-limited experience, her people didn't even have words for that kind of devotion in a marriage. "But he isn't sentimental. He just knows that for now I can't think about . . . that sort of thing."

"And if we can at some point return you to your rightful role, being contracted to someone could be awkward if a better match were required."

He said it so matter-of-factly it took a minute for the meaning to register. "Neither my father nor I have any plans for my taking my mother's Council seat, whether it should have been mine or not. I don't want it anyway. I think Imperial officer turned Jedi is enough."

"Whether you want to or not is beside the point," Stent said. "And there's the Empire of the Hand as well. The Syndic may not intend for the leadership to be hereditary, but expectations may force his hand."

Thelea gritted her teeth. "If it's not what he intends, then I'm the last person who's going to challenge it by acting like heir apparent. Sorry if you were angling to be the co-ruler or an Aristocra's husband."

Stent blinked, the furrow between his brows deepening. "I had thought a match with someone who is intelligent, attractive, and compatible in . . . several respects," and she hoped her face wasn't coloring along with the warm flush she could feel, and that she was in error about the similar rush of color creeping up his neck, "would be both politically wise and personally, mutually, satisfying. Again, my apologies."

She'd forgotten just how subtle Chiss sarcasm could be until she'd joined her father's Empire and begun spending time around Cheunh speakers again. Even her father's sense of humor was downright broad by comparison. "I didn't mean to insult you. As I said, the fault is mine." She unstrapped her harness and rose. "I'm going in back to have a talk with our guest. Notify me if there's any trouble, otherwise let me know when we're fifteen minutes out from reversion."

"Yes, my lady." She didn't bother with the correction this time.

The Zeta-class was more comfortably configured for a long flight than the Lambda and it seemed to be making the stormtroopers uncomfortable. It was hard to maintain a rigid, intimidating attitude when not only was nothing happening, but the seats were encouraging you and your prisoner to relax. Something their Rebel passenger was excelling at–Horn was slouched casually in his seat, apparently unhindered by the binders, eyes closed as if he were taking a nap. He wasn't, she could tell–his mind was still active, and he'd been listening even without being able to understand.

Slumping down in the seat opposite Horn, she rested her head in her hands. "You can stop pretending to be asleep, Lieutenant Horn. I know you're not."

"Hard to sleep with all the bickering going on," Horn said, sitting up. "Or with these." He raised his wrists. "Kind of hard to stretch out."

Thelea closed her eyes for a moment, feeling in the Force for the latching mechanism of the binders, and they fell away to the floor. She felt Horn's barely-controlled surge of surprise, and the startled but more muted reactions of the troopers. They had probably at least heard about what she and Aleishia were, though the non-humans among them might not have understood without seeing what "Jedi" meant. "More comfortable, Lieutenant?" She opened her eyes.

Horn was rubbing his wrists and staring hard at her in a way that would have been offensive if it weren't refreshing. For once, she had the distinct impression that her race wasn't the issue. "I'm not sure." Once again, he was eyeing the lightsaber on her belt. "There were rumors Thrawn had a Dark Jedi working for him. No one mentioned multiple Jedi, or that one was related to him."

Thelea ignored that last bit. "Dark Jedi, really." She knew now it was a human-Chiss difference that her own dry delivery was often taken as sarcasm. Sometimes that just meant not having to exert extra effort. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, the fact you're working for the Empire is a tip." Horn was no slouch in the sarcasm department himself. "I don't see a lot of room for alternative interpretation there."

"There's a lot of things you don't see yet, Lieutenant." That there were more sides than Rebel and Imperial in the galaxy, for a start. "My own 'lightness' or 'darkness' is only one of them. If you're lucky, you won't see too many of the others any time soon."

"These threats from the Unknown Regions and beyond," and she couldn't blame him for sounding skeptical. "The ones your . . . father? . . . is so worried about he's willing to take over where Palpatine left off to be ready for them."

"If Palpatine had worried less about consolidating power to play personal games and your Senate had worried less about fighting among themselves, Father could still _be_ there fighting, not trying to put the rest of the galaxy back in some semblance of order," Thelea grumbled, and she saw a flare of triumph, quickly smothered but distinct, on Horn's face. _Oh, damn it. Point to you, Lieutenant Horn. You're as bad as Rurik for making me blurt things._

_Rurik. Where did that thought come from?_ She looked up towards the cockpit and forcibly ended that train of thought.

"All right, stop smirking," she said, focusing on Horn. "Fine. Grand Admiral Thrawn is my father. You win whatever obscure point-scoring game you two were playing about that."

"Private joke," and he didn't even have the grace to acknowledge how ridiculous that sounded. "Anyway, it's not like your names weren't a hint and you take after him."

"Says everyone _but_ him," Thelea muttered. She thought she saw one trooper's shoulder plates shaking as if he were trying to contain a laugh, and she glared at the anonymous faceplate until it stopped.

Horn, meanwhile, was still studying her with that analytic expression that reminded her of something midway between her father's 'art look' and an ISB interrogator on the job. "So unless you're some sort of odd gender-swap clone or your species is _very_ different, there must be a mother involved. Not that we have even a data tape's worth of information about the Grand Admiral, but there was definitely nothing said about a family."

Thelea felt a tightening in her chest, the specter of the old pain. "My mother died when I was very young. Even if we were among our own kind, Father wouldn't speak of her much. Living among aliens?" She shook her head. "I doubt he ever mentioned her to anyone. Not much point, and anyway he doesn't _like_ to talk about her, even to me. I don't remember her very well, but for him I think sometimes there's too much to remember."

Horn looked faintly nonplused, as if the notion of Thrawn (or possibly any Imperial) grieving was the most alien thing he'd seen yet. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I know . . . well, when Mom died it hit Dad and me hard. It got easier for me, but I don't know if Dad ever really got over it before I lost him, too."

"Thank you." Strangely, he was sincere. And even stranger, it was almost a relief, the normal human response, the humans' innate instinct to empathize. "The Imperial Court, though, wouldn't have viewed it as anything but a weakness. As for me, it was safer if I was going to be in the Navy if no one knew we had any connection beyond species." _Including me. Damn Father for being right._

The Rebel pilot, at least, looked more pensive than derisive. "So the uniform's not just to blend in?"

"I went to the Academy, if that's what you mean, but none of our uniforms are for show, even those that aren't Imperial." She glanced down at the black, and the empty spot over her heart where the rank plates would have gone. "I was a pilot, though, not a bridge officer."

That seemed to pique his interest more than anything. "Shuttles or cap ships?"

In spite of herself, and knowing it wasn't very Jedi-like, she wrinkled her nose. "Interceptors. Mostly. I started on the old base TIEs."

"Since when did the Empire let women fly strike fighters?"

"Since about the same time they made aliens Grand Admirals," she retorted. It was oddly familiar, this sort of conversation. Oddly refreshing, too. It had been a long time since someone had challenged her credentials, rather than carefully tip-toed around her, afraid either of the lightsaber at her side or worse, her running to her father.

"Point made." Horn slumped back in his seat, glancing at the stoic forms of the troopers to either side. "Ever fly against Rogue Squadron?"

"I wasn't at Bilbringi, at least not a fighter, if that's what you're really asking," she said. "Otherwise, not that I know of, though I gather I must have flown against its leader, Antilles, at Endor. No idea if I ever got close to him, though. That was a cluster of epic proportion."

"You were at Endor?" Now he definitely sounded intrigued.

"207th Interceptor Assault Squadron, attached to the _Executor_ ," she said, still feeling a flare of pride. "We weren't the 181st, but we held our own." _Until the end_.

"You might have run across quite a few of Rogue Squadron, then," he said. "I wonder how many of them are even still alive."

"Well, you," Thelea pointed out dryly. "And our other guest from Bilbringi who was across the detention block from you, Major Klivian."

"Hobbie's a prisoner? And you didn't let him go with me?" It was a swirl of relief, happiness, and anger all doubled, knowingly or otherwise, by his Force-sensitivity.

"Father knows you and he trusts your judgement," she said. "He didn't give any details about why. How did you meet? I gather it was on Corellia."

"The smugglers he mentioned were blundering around Treasure Ship Row, probably in retrospect part of some plan of the Grand Admiral's since he was with them. My father and I noticed them when two of the crew decided to jump in when some local heavies were threatening a tavern owner and his granddaughter. Dad and I decided they could use some backup. Your father, as I recall, shot a blaster out of one thug's holster." He shook his head, with the distracted look of someone not quite believing their own recollection. "We–Dad and I–worked our way into the plan after that. It ended with us arresting Zekka Thyne, a Black Sun crime lord. In the short term, anyway, that was a good thing." He shrugged. "What makes your father think he can trust me based on that, I have no idea. We did have a strange conversation about Chassu's art, though."

Thelea nodded slowly, considering the pieces. "You jumped in to help prevent innocents being victimized by criminals, though it didn't directly involve you. Father isn't fond of pointless violence, criminal violence even less so. Then if you managed to keep up with one of _his_ operations and come out of it alive, you're obviously not incompetent. Gross incompetence is probably the only thing he hates more than waste. And if you could talk about art?" She had to suppress a laugh. "No wonder he considers your politics misguided, but you basically decent. Now, Major Klivian, he doesn't know. In any case, consider him, and the other Rebels we have in custody, as hostages for your good behavior. Just as I, and to a lesser extent Kres'ten'tarthi and Alpha Squad, are hostages for Father's good intentions."

"Releasing more than one person would go a long way to convincing everyone of his good intentions," Horn retorted. "And Kres-ten-what?"

"Commander Kres'ten'tarthi," she repeated, knowing he was going to mangle it again if he tried. Rurik had made a solid effort with her various names, but something about the aspirants seemed to defeat human vocal cords. "Our pilot. He's also head of my father's Household Phalanx, and since this trip isn't several weeks I don't have time to try and explain what that means. Suffice to say, he serves my father, and if you want to address him, I'd suggest going with 'Commander', as you don't know him well enough to use his core name and mangling our full names is almost as offensive as presuming."

"But your name isn't a tongue-twister, and I doubt everyone in the galaxy is on a first-name basis with the Grand Admiral."

"My name, if you want to be pedantic, is Mitth'ele'arana. I'm used enough to humans I don't mind strangers using my core name. My father's name is Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Apparently the first Imperials he met found that difficult, so he gave them the courtesy without the normal formalities" _Parck_ . . . . She shoved aside the thought. "At the academy I used my core name and a . . . identifier that served a similar purpose to a human surname." _If there's such a thing as labeling yourself an orphan bastard of low birth in human cultures._ "Stent has always lived primarily among our people. It would be rude for someone he didn't know, even if they were the same species."

"But the boss's daughter can call him whatever she likes?" Horn's smile was somewhere between a smirk and the kind of teasing grin she'd always wanted to smack off Rurik's face. She wondered if CorSec or the Rebels trained their agents to be irritating, or if it just came naturally to born pilots. "Or something else? I could follow an loader droid's chatter easier than your language, but that sounded like a personal argument."

"Did you moonlight as an advice columnist for the sludgenews net?" At least with humans, one didn't have to waste much time on subtle. "Keep it up and forget core names, you can start calling me Lady Thelea, too."

Horn's eyes narrowed. "Being the future Emperor's daughter doesn't rate 'princess'?"

"No, but being my mother's firstborn means I could start demanding certain formalities if I really wanted to be obnoxious and when it comes to obnoxious, being around humans always leaves me feeling I need to keep up." She sighed in spite of herself. "Not that I have any chance of claiming what's rightfully mine. Or plans of lining up for another inheritance–now, if Mother were here, she'd make a proper Empress. I'm too much like Father. Only instead of a fleet, I'll settle for a fighter. Other issues aside, I was glad Father picked someone from the Rebel's most famous squadron for this. Stent was rather impressed that you're Rogue Squadron, too. He spends most of his time back home–well, at our home base–flying with Colonel Fel. You people are something on a legend to them."

The flicker of pride, not quite acceptance of flattery, was practically a shout. Thelea wondered whether he'd actually notice if she tried planting a suggestion, just as an experiment, but given her own weaknesses in that area, it was probably not the best idea. "I never met Baron Fel–joined the squadron after he was gone. But I've heard stories. So he's back to flying for the Empire? Some people I know will be disappointed to hear it." Then his face darkened again. "If they're still alive, that is."

"If it's any comfort," and she made sure her tone gave no indication whether she cared if it was or not, "five of your fighters escaped at Bilbringi and we had no indication they were at Yag'Dhul. Intelligence reports indicate Commander Antilles, at least, is alive and in command."

"Good. I'll be glad to rejoin them. Not to mention my wife. My father-in-law is going to be disappointed, though. He probably thought he was off the hook." There was a slight closing-off, as if the topic had reminded him exactly where he was and whom he was speaking to.

"He didn't approve of you?" It would have been an unspeakably rude question to a fellow Chiss, but humans seemed to enjoy talking about themselves regardless of topic or circumstance, and if she kept him going, the better the chance he'd come around just a bit before they arrived.

"My father got him sent to the spice mines for smuggling and piracy." The grin was a bit lopsided, but there. "All things considered, the fact he didn't burn me down the first time I even _looked_ at Mirax is pretty amazing."

"And I thought I had awkward family problems," Thelea said.

"Can't be easy being a Grand Admiral's kid." Horn didn't sound overly sympathetic.

"Would that Father's side were the problem," she retorted. "I'm afraid my mother's relatives make the old Imperial Court look like rank amateurs at backstabbing and treachery. But then we've had thousands of years of selecting for very smart, very strong, very capable, and very cold-blooded people. Mother's relatives apparently got more than their fair share of the last part."

"Who _are_ your people, anyway?" Horn shifted forward, elbows on knees. "There's a lot of races that come through the Corellian system and I've never seen anyone of yours before, unless your father's not the only one who makes a habit of wandering around in armor."

Thelea felt her lip quirk halfway to a smile and quashed the instinct, reluctantly. "It's possible, but not likely. We're very insular. There are always . . . deviants like me, who run away, and I suppose at some point some exile besides Father must have survived and escaped from wherever they were put, but it's been millennia since our people have collectively sought out the outside world. We aren't taught the details, or at least I never was, but I gather there are reasons, or were." It was a conscious effort not to reach for her lightsaber and feel for the energy of the ancient crystal inside it. Someday, perhaps, she'd learn the details of how it and the gold crystal in her mother's had come to Csilla. Perhaps the Imperial Archives on Coruscant went back four thousand years, assuming the Rebels hadn't rewritten everything.

_Or,_ a cool, logical thought poked through, _your father didn't wipe any ancient references to home when he had the chance_.

"Is part of that deviancy thing where you can do Force tricks and carry that?" Horn pointed to the lightsaber.

"If my so-called guardians had realized I was Force-sensitive, instead of hiding me away as a poor relation they'd have simply branded me a defective freak and killed me. Even Father half-hoped if no one ever trained me my abilities would wither. He was one of the few who knew my mother had those abilities, too, and I think in part he blamed her death on them." She sighed. _And he's right, in part, but Mother couldn't have sat by and let our people suffer any more than Father could have sat down on that backwater and died instead of trying to get home any way he could._ "But I am what I am. I use my abilities to serve Father's Empire and protect others. It's not as much fun as flying most of the time, but there are a lot of great fighter jockeys out there. There aren't a lot of Force-users."

"Because the guy your father used to work for wiped most of them out." Horn was superficially back on the defensive, but she could feel it was not as hard as it had been before. He was no longer entirely on his guard or thinking of her as dark to his light. It was a start, if a small one.

"Most. Not all." She glanced at the troopers and tried to keep from smirking. "And as your leaders are going to find out soon, considering the Grand Admiral just another of Palpatine's subordinates is perhaps not the correct point of view. There are many things that even the Emperor didn't know, or only thought he understood. Our current enemies are only one of them."

"Call me skeptical." Horn would have said more, but Stent was climbing down from the cockpit and Horn fell silent.

The Chiss pilot glanced at Horn, and deliberately took a seat two down from Thelea and well out of Horn's reach. He gestured to the discarded binders. "Do you think that's really wise? Rogue Squadron is notorious for many of them not only being dangerous in the cockpit of an X-wing."

"Even a Kur'il'ian," and she used the Cheunh pronunciation, "isn't stupid enough to chance these odds. In any case we're giving him what he wants: we're taking him home." And then switched languages. "And speak Basic, Stent, we're being rude to our guest."

He gave her a faintly tight-eyed expression, puzzled but not nearly enough to let subordinates or a human see. "My apologies." He turned in his seat. "I am sorry, Lieutenant Horn. I am not entirely accustomed to working with humans who don't speak our language."

"Apology accepted, Commander," Horn said, and Thelea mentally gave him a point for remembering his manners. "Lady Thelea says you're a pilot."

"Don't you start," Thelea muttered, but he ignored her. She suspected that was a species trait of humans, to go with the smart-mouth option.

Stent, meanwhile, only nodded, though she detected just the faintest amused twitch of his lip. "I have the honor of being Baron Fel's wingman, when I am not forced to attend to other duties of the Phalanx. He speaks very highly of Rogue Squadron. It is an honor to meet one of its pilots."

"I'd rather have met you the way I usually meet Imperials, fighter to fighter," Horn said. "But I suppose this will do."

"I concur. It's more appropriate to settle matters between warriors as warriors," Stent said. "The Syndic, however, wishes us to cooperate."

"Syndic?"

"My father," Thelea interrupted, "and remember I said this trip isn't long enough to explain internal politics." She gave Stent a side-eyed, narrow gaze and he nodded, taking the rebuke almost as imperceptibly as she gave it. "And he does want us cooperating, so we will."

Stent nodded. "I hope, Lieutenant, you will be able to introduce me to Commander Wedge Antilles. I have a message for him."

"I'll see what I can do," Horn said, and Thelea thought he sounded only halfway sarcastic. "Assuming all of you don't get to check out our version of detention cells. I don't think they're quite as bad as yours, but . . . ."

Thelea saw the stiffening of Stent's muscles and said, deliberately blandly, "I certainly hope it doesn't come to that. Father would not be in an agreeable mood if he had to bring the main fleet to Coruscant to rescue us. It would make negotiations quite awkward. And short."

Horn looked as if he were going to disagree, but a flicker of something in his sense in the Force said he'd stopped himself. Instead he turned back to Stent. "So you're a pilot, too. And you fly with Fel. What kind of stories is he telling about Rogue Squadron?"

For a moment Thelea was afraid subtle prompting wouldn't work and she'd have to resort to either flat-out ordering Stent to have a civil conversation or kicking him in the ankle, and she wasn't sure which would go over better. But after a momentary pause where he only stared at the Rebel pilot he said, "That your pilots are as reckless and insubordinate as they are talented. And that's what makes you dangerous." His mouth twitched just slightly in what one of his own species would recognize as a trace of humor.

Horn gave him that same analytic stare he'd fixed on Thelea for a moment, and then he gave Stent a broad human grin. "Just the right amount of rebellion is good for the spirit. And it gives us an edge. You should try it some time."

Thelea had to actively cough down a giggle as Stent drew himself up. "To serve loyally is the highest form of honor," he said, his accent making it sound even more pedantic in Basic.

She couldn't help herself. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not always the best at obedience myself. Father certainly wasn't or the Council wouldn't have exiled him. Speaking of which, aren't you technically a fugitive, at least as far as our own homeworld is concerned?" She glanced at Horn. "Maybe we aren't so different from the Rebels after all."

Stent didn't look as if he agreed. "It is hardly the same situation."

"Sounds more like she might have a point," Horn said, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. His elbow bumbled the shoulder plate of the trooper sitting beside him and Thelea could feel the man's mental wince has he restrained the urge to discipline the prisoner. "Maybe you'd fit right in with Rogue Squadron."

It was worth the nearly day-long trip in hyperspace, Thelea thought, just to see the look on Stent's face at the thought.

The _Defiance_ was hailing the _Chimaera_ almost the instant the Imperial flagship dropped out of hyperspace in the Ord Trasi dockyards. Thrawn, in his usual position on the bridge, was scanning the assembled ships, some in airdock, some drifting with mobile crews scattered over their hulls like mynocks. The slight upward curve at the corners of his mouth was the only indication of any pleasure in the number of Rebel ships being repaired or retrofitted but inwardly he allowed himself a lingering moment of satisfaction. Foremost among the captured warships was the great curved bulk of _Home One_ , half-concealed by the docking gantries and construction droids swarming its surface. _Defiance_ , with her minimal battle scarring, only the sort any ship of the line might have, looked out of place floating on her own some distance from the main station. A single EV crew was working on one of the starboard turbolaser towers, but otherwise, she looked serene.

Her captain, on the other hand, sounded more than a bit tense. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Admiral," the one-eighth holo of Captain Caelin said when the connection was established. "The prisoner-specimen-I don't even know what to call him–is deteriorating quickly. We've managed to move him to the medical bay, but without the ship he was connected to, he's fading. Medical is doing everything they can, but this technology isn't anything the droids or humans have ever seen, or have reference to in Imperial databanks. Just trying to run diagnostics was dangerous, for him and for us."

"Understood. Stand by to receive our shuttle. I'll be aboard shortly." He glanced at the wan figure standing wraith-like near the viewport. "Has the . . . patient been able to speak?"

"Not much, sir," Caelin said, his brow creasing with Thrawn took to be concern. "When he does, it's in the Chiss language, but the translation programs can't make much out of it. We do know he's said your name, though."

Thrawn gave himself an instant to consider that, then shoved the thought aside. Speculation wasted time they did not have. "Captain Pellaeon and I will be aboard momentarily," and once again he looked to the viewport, "and . . . a guest."

"Yes, sir, we'll be ready," Caelin said, and with that same look of someone analyzing quickly and deciding to gamble he'd had when they'd met in person for his promotion to Captain, said, "Please hurry, sir. I don't think he has much time left."

"Stand by for our arrival. _Chimaera_ out." Thrawn turned, but Pellaeon was already relaying orders to the shuttle bay. Instead, he focused on Aleishia. She had recovered from her collapse on seeing the message from _Defiance_ , but for once she'd accepted the Captain's over-chivalrous offer to have her escorted to her quarters. She'd been a long time in returning and when she did, he noted the dark robes she'd adopted were her old camouflage-cum-servant's garb from her days masquerading as Lisetha's attendant, or something very like them. The color flattered her even less now to his eye, her skin having grown paler since first he'd known her, and now there were dark circles under her eyes.

_Charity_ , he chided himself. He'd known about the attachment between Aleishia and his wife's aide and bodyguard, Ser'halis, and while he'd never especially understood or approved of such a bond between a Chiss warrior and an alien, he'd had no doubt it was sincere. Aleishia'd grieved him as dead, and to now discover him like this could only be agony.

"Are you prepared, Master Jedi?" was all he said aloud.

For a moment, she didn't appear to hear him, but he knew she had. Finally she turned, her hands folded in front of her. "No, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, I am not. But waiting any longer will not help."

Pellaeon was waiting, and once again his features creased with that courtly concern. He wasn't foolish enough to suggest she remain behind, another credit to his growing observational skills, but he did offer, "Perhaps you were mistaken. You only saw the holo for a moment, and given the conditions–"

"Thank you, Captain," she interrupted softly, but she did at least manage a faint smile, "but there is no mistake. Not now, anyway." She turned those dark eyes on him, and Thrawn almost was unable to restrain a flinch. "I believe Captain Caelin said we had little time to spare. We should go."

The shuttle ride over was silent beyond the usual, if subdued, communications between the pilot and the _Defiance'_ s docking control. From his seat in the copilot's chair, Thrawn couldn't see Pellaeon or Aleishia, but he could almost feel the Jedi's presence, shrunken in on itself and closed away as it hadn't been since–

_Don't think about it. She's wrong. You're wrong. This is a coincidence. A horrible one, but nothing more. We did everything we could have done to save them. We couldn't know._

Except Serhal and Lisetha had gone together, chasing shadows and rumors and half-heard cries for help when she hadn't had the patience to wait for the Defense Force or the sense to at least send to him, to know he'd listen, persuade her to wait . . . he stopped himself. They had gone together and as far as anyone could tell, had died together, both their fighters (toys, really, flyers that were more playthings for the nobles than true fighting vehicles) gone. There had been so few pieces, but enough debris that the search parties had estimated at least one was destroyed. If Serhal were here, that meant Lisetha's had been the debris and he had been captured along with his. Or in the other order–nothing else short of death would have stopped the guard from defending his lady.

Lisetha was dead. She was not trapped in a tangle of wires, enslaved to a machine and twisted to serve its will, waiting for him to rescue her if he'd only known where to look . . . .

_What if you're wrong?_ The voice sounded like a twisted version of his own, a tone he'd never use, not with the most useless, unrepentantly inept conscript or clone. _What if she could speak to you because she_ was _trapped, imprisoned in one of their ships? "I don't know where I am," that's what she said the first time. And the last, she said_ we _could barely reach, and she has never returned. What if that's because she was in one of those ships, and it was destroyed? What if you gave the order yourself to the crews who did it? Worse . . . what if the dark ones discovered she was speaking to you and tortured her? Killed her?_

_What if it's your fault?_

Thrawn shoved the thought aside and ruthlessly silenced the voice. Whether her fighter had been obliterated years ago and she'd always been an ever-weakening ghost, or she'd been twisted into an imprisoned servant and killed after she'd appeared to them was irrelevant. Minor details. Lisetha was dead. The dark ones had taken her away from him. He would destroy them and they would never threaten another being in this galaxy again, never rip families and whole races apart. And then he would face the threat after that, and the one following, on and on until the galaxy was finally at peace. It would never bring her back, but it would mean she had not given her life in vain.

The shuttle barely jolted as it settled onto _Defiance_ 's docking-bay floor. Through the cockpit transparisteel, Thrawn could see Caelin waiting, not at proper attention but shifting from foot to foot, his fingers drumming on his thigh as he watched the shuttle ramp descend. Thrawn didn't waste any time unstrapping his harness, or making sure that Pellaeon and Aleishia were following as he descended the ramp.

Caelin had gained a few stress lines around his eyes since the last time they'd met in person. Thrawn wasn't surprised; Wild Space and the borderlands could do that to a person. His salute, though, was crisp and correct. "Welcome aboard the _Defiance_ , Admiral."

"We can dispense with the formalities, Captain Caelin." He heard the others coming down behind him. "The . . . prisoner is in the medical bay?"

"Yes, sir. We were able to partially disconnect the . . . interface, and the medics are doing their best to keep him alive and undo what damage they can, but nothing seems to work for long." He glanced over Thrawn's shoulder. "Captain Pellaeon," he said, nodding respectfully, "welcome aboard. And– _you!_ " His pale blue eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step back.

_Damn._ He had forgotten that Rurik had met Aleishia once before, in circumstances were he was unlikely to forget the experience. "I'm sure, Captain, you recall Master Aleishia Zei-Venah. I believe you met before."

Rurik blinked, discipline obviously warring with shock and more than a bit of suspicion. Finally, though, with a visible stiffening of his spine, he said, "Yes. It's been a very long time. I do remember, though, you never mentioning you were acquainted with the Admiral. Thelea would have said." He flinched, and glanced at Thrawn, and for an instant Thrawn wasn't sure what the issue was and then, of course, he remembered. As far as Caelin was concerned, Thelea was dead.

_You're more distracted than she is._ "Former Jedi not mentioning Imperial connections? And that surprises you?" He kept his voice cool and level, as if this were any other insubordinate fleet officer. "In any case, the only pertinent relationship she knew of was between myself and Thelea, and she was instructed not to speak of it. Not to Thelea, and certainly not to you. Now, if we may–"

Aleishia interrupted, not with a word, but with a soft gasp. Even as she wavered on her feet, Pellaeon once more offering a steadying hand, Caelin's comm chirped. "Captain, Specialist Muro," the tinny female voice from the speaker said. "If our visitors are here, they need to hurry."

"On our way," he said, pocketing the comlink. "Admiral, if you please . . . ."

Thrawn noted with approval that there were troopers stationed at the entry to the medical bay. A harried-looking medical technician was waiting for them, and behind her he could see the lights looked abnormally dim. "Captain, thank the stars," she said, then caught herself, straightening to attention. "My apologies, Grand Admiral Thrawn. No excuse–"

"As you were, Specialist," he interrupted. "The prisoner?"

She glanced uneasily at his companions, and then at the door to the medical bay. "His life signs are fluctuating, sir. The droids are interfaced with the connections we had to sever to remove him from the fighter, but we have to be careful there–some sort of integrated systems are still active and they keep trying to . . . communicate with our ship's computers."

"Can they determine how these implants were attached? Or how long he's been like this?" Thrawn fought the urge to look over her shoulder.

Muro shrugged uneasily. "Sorry, sir. Best guess would be not recently. Years, but I couldn't say how many."

Suddenly Aleishia was pushing past them, and she was through the doors before the troopers could even react. Thrawn followed, not waiting to see if the others joined him. The medical bay had been evacuated other than the droids and the figure on the diagnostic bed.. A sheet covered the lower half of his body, and the upper was half-hidden by a network of wires, cables, and medical tubes that linked him to a 2-1B unit standing beside the bed. Thrawn could see pressure marks where fine leads or worse, thicker cables, plunged under the pallid blue skin, sometimes visibly running beneath the surface for centimeters before disappearing. Even with part of his face obscured by the borg implants, Thrawn could see the darkened eye socket and the familiar profile.

Aleishia had gone still, her emotions playing openly across those human features. "Serhal," and he doubted anyone else was close enough to hear.

Except, maybe, Serhal himself. The lights in the medical bay flickered and dimmed, and electricity crackled across the half-exposed leads, making his body arch and eliciting a scream. He heard stumbling behind him, Pellaeon and Caelin taking involuntary steps back, but Aleishia reached out and to her credit, Muro pushed past them and bolted to the droid. "Stay back, please. We already lost an FX unit to electrical overload and I'm not the only medic with minor burns. Some sort of defense mechanism, or the cyborg tech has some programming to seek out systems and the arcing is a byproduct, I don't know. But you don't want to be grounded if you're touching him and it goes off." She studied a few monitors and adjusted something. Serhal twitched again, but the shocks stopped. "I can't believe he's withstood this so long."

Thrawn fought down a surge of unreasonable guilt. Serhal had always been Lisetha's retainer, not his. He couldn't have stopped the bodyguard from following her if he'd tried.

_But if you'd been there . . . ._

"He is a Chiss warrior," was all he said aloud. "He is strong."

Serhal lashed against the restraints again, his head twisting. This time, the cry of pain resolved into words. "The machine . . . cannot hear . . . it calls . . . ."

Thrawn moved forward instinctively, despite the warning gesture from Muro and a startled, "Admiral, please!" from Pellaeon. But Aleishia was faster, stepping closer, hand outstretched. He recognized the distracted expression on her face, the same looking-away impression she always gave when utilizing those Jedi abilities. She kept moving forward as Serhal thrashed, his back arching, the single eye wide and unseeing. Something in the 2-1B crackled and its photoreceptors flickered.

"Please . . . ." His voice was a creaking rasp of pain. "We join . . . we cannot fight . . . I must . . . the machine . . . .the pain!"

"Serhal." Her voice was soft, gentle, barely a whisper. "Let me help you," she continued in Cheunh. "Let me stop the pain."

For a moment, he went very still. "The voice . . . we . . . I know the voice. In my mind . . . . the machine blocks it in my mind!"

"I can help you," she murmured, now within a handspan of his side. "I can block the machine. Let me help you, Serhal. You know me, my _rial'ech'yone_." Thrawn was torn between flinching and pity at the endearment, heart's-flame, such an old, intimate term. So close to _nar'ech'yon_ , with its roots in 'half of my heart.' "Let me help you."

"Ser'halis," he said, and the other twisted again, the single eye scanning, fixing on him. "You know me. I am Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Your Lady's husband. You are on a ship under my command. You're among friends. You're safe."

The single eye blinked, his movements stilling. Aleishia took a final step and rested her hand on his, to all appearances without noticing the fine wires and scars. "Let me help you, dear one," she murmured. "Let me block the voices."

He shuddered, and Thrawn saw Specialist Muro poised to spring and push Aleishia clear of another round of electrical flares. Then, Serhal's fingers flexed, curling around hers, as his breath came out in a sigh. "Aleishia," he said, "my snow maiden."

"I'm here, heart's-flame. You're safe now." She leaned close, gently stroking his forehead with her free hand.

For an instant the good eye closed and Thrawn looked uneasily to the medical monitors and the medic's tense expression. Then Serhal said, his voice still rough as if with long disuse, "I must . . . before the machine stops me again . . . Mitth'raw'nuruodo, you must know . . . ."

Thrawn moved closer, careful not to touch the diagnostic bed. "I am here, Serhal."

"The ship we . . . the machine . . .destroyed, it was coming to warn you," he gasped. "The machine . . .they are building a great machine. Our people are being used. Resources . . . lives . . . siphoned away to feed the machine. Its reach goes all the way to the Council. We . . . I . . . heard the message. Heard your name. I remembered . . . ." His eye closed again a moment and there was a faint buzz form the medical droid, though Aleishia didn't relinquish her grip, apparently not fearing another shock. "They will strike . . . first our people, then these, then all . . . ." His jaw tightened.

"Do you know where?" It was cruel. This was not a prisoner to interrogate, his conscience said, this was a prisoner rescued. They should be easing his pain, not asking questions. But there was no time. "Or what it can do?"

"Borderlands," Serhal gasped, his hand tightening convulsively around Aleishia's. If the Jedi noticed, she gave no indication. "Empty system, one of the ancient graveyards. . . If they finish, we are all finished. They could reopen the gate, draw power from so many places . . . we stopped them before, she stopped them, but now the machine rebuilds."

Thrawn closed his eyes against the sudden, tearing pain. "She–your Lady–she wasn't captured?"

"I failed her," Serhal said, and clenched in pain even as Aleishia murmured comforting words. "We tried to stop them, I tried–but my flyer, damaged, captured, the weapons were useless . . . Lisetha had no choice. She flew . . . into the gate. Shattered it. I failed her, Commander." He didn't bother correcting the rank. "I should have died with her. Died _for_ her. Should have sent her back to you, to the little one . . . ." He opened his eye and tried to sit up, straining the connections. "Mitth'ele'arana–she lives? The Council-she must take back the Council. She lives?"

"She lives," Thrawn said quietly. The _Defiance_ 's systems were no doubt recording, when the tapes were reviewed the translation computers would know Cheunh and spell out the truth for Caelin to know, but it didn't matter now. He did not remember precisely how, but as with most Council-Aides and close guards Serhal had been of Lisetha's Family. He was blood. Thelea's blood, too. He had a right to the truth. "She thrives. She has her mother's heart."

For a moment, in a motion that must have been painful, Serhal's mouth curved in a smile. "Tell her I'm sorry. I failed her, too. Tell her . . . ." His whole body clenched again, the readouts all flickering ominously. "Forgive me, Mitth'raw'nuruodo. I should have died for her. Forgive me for not dying for her. She should have come back to you. I saw, you know, saw early on . . . her heart was always yours. Forgive me for failing you all, for becoming . . . this."

The foul part was, some hateful voice in his mind agreed. Loathed Serhal for being here, even dying, when Lisetha wasn't. But, and Thrawn forced himself to think it, not remotely as much as he hated himself for the same reason. "There is nothing to forgive," he said. "You gave your life as a true warrior. She was proud, I am sure, to die fighting by your side. Thelea will remember your name with honor, and her children and their children will know it. And I . . . I am glad Lisetha did not die alone."

Serhal shuddered, his breath coming out with a sigh. Specialist Muro moved closer, adjusting something, and the lines of her face deepened. "We're losing him, Admiral."

"There's nothing you can do?" Basic felt strange, sounded wrong in his own ears in this moment.

Muro shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. Some of the circuits and wires run deep into his organs. The shocks have weakened him more than he already was, but if we remove them, we'd only kill him faster, with more pain." Her gaze turned to where Aleishia was still beside Serhal, his hand in hers, her other hand stroking his forehead. "I could . . . there are ways to ease his passing, if you think that would be best."

There were probably a thousand ways in Imperial medical databanks, Thrawn thought. Most were probably not designed to be gentle, simply effective. And he too watched Aleishia, saw the bright signs of tears in her eyes. They had so little time as it was. He knew how precious even seconds could be. "No, Specialist," he said quietly. "Thank you for suggesting it, but it will come soon enough."

Aleishia looked up, and didn't even bother to conceal the surprise or the pain. "Thank you, Thrawn," she said softly. No rank, no fullname, but he couldn't bring himself to take offense, and only nodded.

Serhal's mouth quirked in that painful smile, his one good eye now fixed on her. "My snow maiden," he whispered, reaching up as far as he could to touch her face, her hair. "Still exotic. Still beautiful."

"And you are still my noble warrior," she replied, just as soft. "I have never forgotten you, heart's-flame."

Thrawn made a sharp gesture to the medic, and turned as soon as he saw her moving to follow. "Captains, if you'll both follow me," he said, the Basic once again feeling strange. "We'll leave them. We have enough to discuss without intruding now."

Pellaeon, looking appropriately somber, only nodded and fell in beside him as Thrawn turned. Muro was setting up a privacy screen, not that it was really necessary, and Caelin . . . the young captain had a very odd look on his face. Concern, yes, the appropriate sobriety as well, but also what looked disturbingly like suspicion. He couldn't possibly have taught himself enough Cheunh in a year to have followed even every tenth word, but clearly something beyond watching a painful death had disturbed him.

Remembering how Caelin had pieced out Lisetha's core name from simply hearing her fullname, Thrawn had a grim suspicion he knew what the problem was.

In the corridor outside medical, he stopped and both captains followed suit. Thrawn remained silent a moment, partially out of respect as he knew what must be happening, the loss Aleishia more than anyone was about to suffer a second time, and partially to think. A great machine–a ship? A battle station? Some other superweapon made with the organic technology? He would have to order the medics to have the droids remove and save every piece of the borg implants before the remains were denatured after the funerary rites. He'd recite those himself if he had to-no warrior had ever earned them more. The implants, and the fighter wreckage, would have to be studied. There had to be a weakness that could be exploited even with the living components. Perhaps that _was_ the weakness. Ser'halis had said he'd broken away when he heard the Thrawn's name. The name had overridden whatever conditioning they'd used, the 'voices' he'd mentioned that Aleishia was blocking.

"Sir?" Caelin's voice broke through his thoughts. "If I could, sir, a question."

Thrawn hesitated a moment, hoping the silent glare would make the young captain think better of it, but Caelin didn't flinch. Mentally cursing his own child for teaching the boy not to find their stare so alien, he said, "Yes, Captain Caelin?"

There was that hard, rebellious edge in his eyes again. "I heard her name. Thelea's name. What was that about, sir?" The formality was clearly tacked on as an afterthought.

But there was no getting out of it. "Ser'halis is-was-Lady Lisetha's aide and bodyguard. He knew Mitth'ele'arana from the day of her birth. He asked after her. Whether she would answer their message. If she was all right."

Caelin's pale eyes darkened, and he looked away. "What did you tell him, Admiral?"

Behind them, the doors to the medical lab opened, and Aleishia stepped out. Her face was damp from tears, but she looked calm again, a cold new resolve to her features. Thrawn met her eyes briefly, and she nodded once, before taking in the scene here.

Thrawn waited until Caelin was looking again before answering. "I told him that she lives. She thrives. That she is like her mother–a warrior at heart."

Caelin's gaze darted away again, his gloved hands clenching at his sides. "So you lied to him."

It would have been easy to say yes. To delay the inevitable for a little while. But he saw the way Aleishia was watching him, saw the puzzled look in Pellaeon's eyes. Loyal, decent Pellaeon . . . he wouldn't ask, he had never asked, just as Parck hadn't, about why Thelea was a secret from Caelin. But unlike Parck, he questioned, in privately if not yet to Thrawn's face. There were far too many questions for everyone to consider now to leave another hanging purely for his own selfish reasons.

"No, Captain Caelin." Caelin's head snapped up. Pellaeon once again looked confused but there was comprehension dawning.

Aleishia, though her eyes were still glistening, gave him a very thin smile.

Thrawn continued: "I did not lie to him. I am afraid I lied to you. My daughter is very much alive."


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those who have bought my ‘real’ books (MissKitsune08), as in the ones I can charge for, on Amazon, thank you so much! If you enjoy them, by all means please review there, share Kindle copies with your friends, and be assured, I’m working on Book Three, too. If you didn’t realize I write real books, you can find them on Amazon under my real name, Jennifer Quail.
> 
> I suggest going back and reading the short stand-alone TIE Fighter: Defiance to refresh your memory of Thrawn and Rurik’s conversation. Mostly to check and see if he was creatively editing more then, or now? For those keeping score at home, Aleishia has now given Thelea the same parting words Obi-Wan gives to Luke on the Death Star, and yes, she is going to try to pull a “certain point of view” Jedi-truth line on Rurik. She’s a way better Jedi than she thinks. Also, as always, pay attention to Thrawn’s exact phrasing. He’s a huge fan of what TV Tropes calls the “Exact Words” trope.

 

  
Rurik wavered on his feet. It would have been about as humiliating as it was possible to be if he passed out in front of his commanding officer, but the other option that sprang to mind involved a fit of hysterical laughter. Also not very officer-like. He could see Pellaeon’s puzzled, disapproving expression (that man was never going to like him), Aleishia’s drawn, tear-strained features, but mostly he fixed on Thrawn’s impassive face. The glowing eyes were watching him, steady, almost unblinking, expression otherwise unreadable.

When he was sure he could actually get coherent words out, rather than gibberish or cackling, he said, very carefully, “I beg your pardon, Admiral. What did you just say?”

Thrawn was very still for a moment. “Thelea is alive, Captain. You may ask Master Aleishia or Captain Pellaeon if you don’t believe me. I chose to mislead you at our last meeting as I believed it was better for you both to focus on the present. You have your role, and she has hers. To distract either of you with revelations about the past would only cause unnecessary complications. It was best you both be kept in the dark.”

Aleishia stepped around him, her expression severe. “Don’t take more guilt than you deserve, Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” she said, her voice taut from weeping. She turned to Rurik. “Thelea is my apprentice. She has spent much of the last six years focusing on her training, which has been delayed long enough as it is,” and he didn’t miss the narrow-eyed glare at Thrawn, which the Grand Admiral ignored. “Further distraction would have been . . . unwise. If you wish to blame anyone, I’m owed my share.”

Rurik still couldn’t quite grasp the words. None of it made sense. He turned, trying not to wobble, and stared at Pellaeon. “Is it true?”

The senior captain looked as if he wished Thrawn hadn’t even brought him aboard, let alone tried to call him as some sort of witness. “I can’t speak to anything before three months ago,” he said, his gaze drifting uneasily to Thrawn. “But I met Commander Thelea . . . well, I first became aware of her existence during the battle of Bilbringi, and I met Master Aleishia shortly thereafter. Admiral Thrawn has vouched for their identities, and Commander Thelea, at least, matches her fleet genetic records. Capt-Admiral Niriz knows them both better than I do, of course. I understand they’ve been in the Unknown Regions much of the time.”

“You may, if the opportunity arises, ask the Admiral as well,” Thrawn said, his tone no longer quite as conciliatory. “My daughter is in many ways not as you knew her, Captain Caelin. When she came to me after Endor, she chose to give up her life as an officer and learn to utilize her more . . .esoteric abilities.”

“She has also begun to address other elements of her life that were neglected,” Aleishia said. “You just witnessed the death of a man who was part of that life. Ser’halis was her mother’s aide and guard-captain and her blood kin. If things had gone as they should have, Thelea would have known him, and he would have guarded her with his life if necessary. He was not the only one who looks to her and sees her mother’s heir. Whether she ultimately chooses to embrace her inheritance or not, in many ways, becoming Chiss again has been stranger for her than becoming a Jedi. From a certain perspective, the Thelea you knew _did_ die at Endor.”

“Is learning to justify lying a Jedi skill, too?” It was out before he could stop himself. Aleishia looked away, and he had to fight down a guilty urge to apologize. Instead he looked at Thrawn. “Or is that one of those Chiss things she needed to learn?”

Thrawn went _dangerously_ still this time, and Rurik thought he heard Pellaeon choke. Finally, though, Thrawn turned to Aleishia. “I assume you wish to remain here until the rites can be arranged?” She looked startled, but nodded. “Captain Pellaeon, please speak to Specialist Muro. All the alien implants and connections are to be removed from . . . the remains and preserved for analysis, along with the fighter’s wreckage. While that is being attended to, please remain with Master Aleishia and provide any support she requires. Captain Caelin,” and the glowing, unreadable eyes turned on him, “your ready room. We will continue this conversation in private.”

“After you, Grand Admiral,” and he bit out the rank far more sharply than he knew he ought. But he couldn’t help it. He doubted he’d have remembered what level to send the turbolift to. Thrawn was silent as well, clearly intent on waiting until they were in private to speak further.

That was fine with Rurik. He couldn’t grasp it. He couldn’t even comprehend the notion. Thelea, alive? Not just alive, but no longer an officer, no longer a pilot, but a Jedi? More staggering, and the mere thought sent flush of anger followed by a shuddering cold through him, if she had escaped Endor, she had not come looking for the fleet, for survivors, for . . . him. She’d fled into the Unknown Regions, seeking out the person she’d called a liar. Someone she hadn’t even known was family, let alone her father.

At least, she’d always said she didn’t know.

And Aleishia. What was the Jedi doing here? Had she been in league with Thrawn all along? Clearly she had been. Had their meeting been a signal to Thelea? He had never read the message chip–was it orders to return to her father? Aleishia had stolen a shuttle on Telamara. Had it been a Jedi’s trick, or did she already have Imperial codes Thrawn had given her?

Rurik shook his head hard. He was going to make himself dizzy over-thinking. Details could wait. The only important fact was Thelea was alive. Some part of his mind, the part that believed it, wanted to sob with relief, to laugh for joy, to demand to know where she was and why, if it were true, she hadn’t come with them.

Another part of his mind was, barely, controlling an anger on a level he had never felt before.

His ready room looked even smaller and plainer than usual with a Grand Admiral standing in it. Thrawn took it in with a brief glance, but Rurik wasn’t interested in his opinion of the decor or cleaning droids’ efforts.

“Permission to speak freely, Admiral.” He bit out the words so crisply it half-sounded like a bad mimicry of a Courscanti accent.

Thrawn studied him for a moment, unblinking, and then said, “Granted, Captain.”

This was either going to get him summarily executed or thrown in the brig, he wasn’t sure which, but at the moment, Rurik didn’t particularly care. “Give me one damn reason why I shouldn’t hit you hard enough they’d hear it halfway to the Core.” His fist was clenched before he even realized it. It was a completely idiotic idea, a small, still-sane part of his mind knew full well. Insubordination notwithstanding, Thrawn was considerably taller than him and fitter than most front-line troopers, never mind the average flag officer, and could probably shrug off the worst Rurik could manage. And attacking a superior officer was mutiny or treason, never mind assaulting the supreme commander of all Imperial forces.

Thrawn, typically, didn’t move and didn’t show any reaction beyond a narrowing of those glowing red eyes. “I can give you several very good reasons, Captain,” and there was no mistaking the icy emphasis on the rank, or any need for Thrawn to expound on that particular potential consequence. “Other than assault on a superior officer being a severe offence, potentially a capital offence, I am taller and our race is as a rule proportionally stronger than yours. Even if we were of similar builds, I’d easily be able to overpower you. And those considerations aside, you claimed when last we met to love my daughter. Attacking me would not endear you to her, assuming you did survive the experience.”

“The last time I saw Thelea she wasn’t feeling kindly disposed towards you,” Rurik retorted, hoping the free-speaking permission still applied. “Frankly I’m surprised the first thing she did if she came to you right after Endor wasn’t punch you herself.”

To his astonishment, Thrawn’s lip quirked in what might have been the start of a smile. “She did not. She did, however, threaten a patrol group from my Phalanx, use very sharp language not appropriate for speaking to a superior officer addressing Captain Niriz, demand to either see me immediately or be shot down, draw her lightsaber on Master Aleishia, and she concluded by accusing me of fathering her out of wedlock.” His lips thinned. “Given the extreme physical and mental stress she’d recently been under, I did not reprimand her as harshly as that particular transgression would otherwise have deserved. Imperial discipline, it seems, does not override a noble’s temper, and her mother had quite a spectacular one to bequeath her.”

“She didn’t know who her parents were, and you never told her,” Rurik retorted. “I was there when you met, remember? How was she supposed to know you were worth calling even an absentee father? You didn’t even show her the holo of her mother, just her necklace.”

Thrawn, for the first time in any of Rurik’s limited interactions, seemed to loose a bit of that preternatural control. “Before my exile, not long after her mother’s death, when it became clear Aleishia would have to leave our world I had her . . . place certain blocks in Thelea’s memory. Reduce her recall of certain people and events. I had no idea her family would go so far to make her forget everything. I never intended for her to forget her mother! Lisetha–“ He seemed to choke on the name, but forced himself back under control. “Thelea’s mother almost never removed that necklace. I wanted to see if she remembered it. To see if she remembered her mother.”

“Obviously she didn’t. So instead of enlightening her, you left her to fend for herself in Death Squadron.” Rurik gritted his teeth. Modifying memories? Of his own child?

“You misremember,” Thrawn retorted. “If you recall, I gave her command codes that saved your life along with hers, and your wingman, Lieutenant Quoris’s. I also recall decorating all of you as well, which contributed considerably to your being transferred to the top assignment in the fleet. As for abandoning her, would you prefer I’d announced her parentage to the galaxy? If I had, who do you think would have killed her first? Those in the Imperial Court who hated and resented an alien promoted to the Emperor’s inner circles of power but didn’t dare strike at me personally? Or those working with our current enemy who only knew her as a minor danger otherwise?” His eyes narrowed. “At best, she would have become a hostage for my . . . cooperation.”

“As if you’d have done anything you didn’t want to, even for your own flesh and blood.”

Rurik had the disconcerting feeling that he was about to die himself. Thrawn had not been exaggerating when he claimed Chiss were stronger than humans, as the fist clenching the front of Rurik’s uniform was almost enough to yank him off his feet. For an instant, the glowing eyes were perilously close and terrifyingly alien. For a moment, Thrawn simply stared at him, the tension in his body suggesting he was fighting a similar urge to Rurik’s earlier one involving fists and faces.

Then he released his grip and stepped away, only a pace. “Do you know, Captain, why I ordered your battle group to bombard the planet Honoghr?”

Rurik wondered if it was a rhetorical question, but the long pause implied not. “I assumed they had betrayed you somehow. The Republic cruiser we intercepted and destroyed coming into the system certainly suggested that. Given what I had to supervise, I was too preoccupied to wonder about the details.” It had not been his proudest moment.

“You may also have noticed the absence of my . . . bodyguard.” Rurik hadn’t, but it wasn’t high on his list of priorities. “He attempted to assassinate me during the battle at Bilbringi. Presumably as part of a coordinated plot; a unit of Noghri conspiring with Rebel agents attacked an Imperial outpost of significant value at the same time. Thelea was present during the attempt on my life. She claimed to have . . . foreseen it.” He grimaced. Rurik at least understood that feeling. Supposedly Jedi could see the future, but Thelea? “She intervened and prevented my death but in the process, she was badly injured. Poisoned. Had Rukh only attempted and failed to kill me, I might have had a more . . . measured response. As he nearly cost Thelea her life I felt compelled to be a bit more aggressive.”

“A bit?” Ruirk couldn’t help it, despite the nagging voice reminding him what he had been prepared to do only moments ago.

“Yes,” Thrawn said, through clenched teeth. “I was quite moderate. If she had died, I would have ordered you to execute a Base Delta Zero. Seeing her in the medical bay, knowing what protecting me cost her . . . I almost regretted not doing so.”

In spite of everything, Rurik had enough presence of mind to feel a cold like hard vacuum deep in his gut. He knew what the order meant. But he’d never seen one administered first-hand, and deep down, he never wanted to. Let alone be the commanding officer executing the order to turn a planet into uninhabitable molten slag.

Thrawn might not be a Jedi himself, but he clearly was following Rurik’s train of thought. “An extreme response, I know,” and somehow the quiet, thoughtful tone was more bone-chilling than the anger. “But make no mistake, Captain Caelin–she is my only child. A child her mother and I wanted more than–“ He cut himself off. “Thelea is many things, Captain: a pilot, a loyal officer, a Force-user, a born noble of a High Family of the Chiss Ascendancy. But most of all, she is my daughter. Because of your compromised emotional state I will overlook this conversation but never again suggest I am indifferent to her safety or won’t fail to punish anyone who threatens it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very clear, Admiral.” Rurik couldn’t help himself. “Did you know she was called before Lord Vader? I was sure he was going to kill her.” He blinked, the memory almost numbing, it felt so distant. “Gir had to stop me charging back after her. You know what he did to people who failed him?”

“Better, I am sure, than you do.” Thrawn looked away, but he seemed to have his temper under some modicum of control. “But Lord Vader is dead. Emperor Palpatine is dead. I command the Empire now, Captain. As I said, I will overlook what we have said here, but I expect order, discipline, and obedience from my officers. If what you’ve learned today has changed your ability to obey my orders, I will expect your resignation. Can you continue to serve?”

For a moment, Rurik was sorely tempted to say no. To know that Thrawn had willfully mislead him, had deliberately hidden Thelea’s survival, and had left her ignorant of his own escape . . . . And then he considered, hard as it was to remember, what he’d just witnessed in the medical bay. How they’d come by the dying Chiss warrior. That ship trying to reach help, to find Thelea. The times they’d encountered those dark ships and their victims.

The stack of reports sitting on data tapes on the desk here, waiting to be read. How much the crew had come together since their near-destruction a year ago and his taking command. Even Thrawn, when he’d given Rurik command, asking him, _if not you, to whom should I entrust the Defiance and her crew_?

“Yes, sir, I can.” He heard the return to stability in his own voice. “But . . . I have to see her, sir.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible at this time.” Of course not. “Thelea is en route to Coruscant–should nearly be there by now.”

“Coruscant!” Rurik forgot discipline again for a moment. “That’s the only real stronghold the Rebels have left! How can you be worried about her safety if you put her on an assault team–“

“She is not leading or participating in an assault of any kind,” Thrawn interrupted, almost sounding amused. “She is my emissary. With any luck, the Rebels will be negotiating for peace in a few days, and the real work can begin.”

“If we have a few days,” Rurik said, trying not to think about the body in medical. “Please tell me she’s well-protected.”

“She has the head of my household Phalanx, and a squad of troopers from the 501st.” Thrawn’s smile was a little unnerving. “And herself. She was a little insulted I felt she required either of the former.”

“That’s not a lot against the heart of the enemy government if they decide to take out their anger at you on your ambassador,” Rurik said, but it wasn’t as if he could turn the ship around and jump straight to Coruscant. Tempting as the thought might be. Plus, Gir would probably appreciate the ride.

Gir. He might be off the hook for almost punching an Admiral, but he had a feeling he was not going to avoid consequences for this. “Admiral, while we’re here,” he said, bracing himself as Thrawn turned back to him from studying the readouts on the status displays. “There’s someone else aboard who deserves to know about Thelea-that she’s alive. And Thelea will want to know about him, too.” Thrawn raised an eyebrow, and Rurik tapped the comm. “Bring Prisoner Quoris to my ready room, Sergeant. Binders on, normal escort.”

Thrawn was watching him, brow creased just faintly in puzzlement. “What is this, Captain?”

“Per your orders, Admiral, we took prisoners at our last engagement with the Rebels,” he sighed, wondering if it would be rude to sit at his desk while a superior officer was present. “One of them was . . . almost as big a shock as you just gave me.”

“So shocking having to specify a prisoner will be moved in binders is necessary?” At least he didn’t sound ready to literally have Rurik shot any more.

Rurik sighed again. “More than most, sir, I’m hoping to convince this particular prisoner to . . . re-defect voluntarily. Also I happened to be speaking to him when we intercepted the message from the Terl’an’harana. He . . . I let him tag along.” He didn’t need any familiarity with Chiss emotions to read Thrawn’s facial expression. “Sir, I had good reason–“

“I certainly hope so,” Thrawn said ominously.

“Do we want them to believe us about what’s out there or not?” He realized he probably should have thrown a ‘sir’ in there, but too late now. “Besides, this particular prisoner’s seen them before. If he had any suggestions, I’m open to all comers. We’re still taking far too much damage whenever we encounter them for more than hit and fade operations. We got lucky this time.”

“That does not excuse permitting a prisoner onto the bridge of a Star Destroyer.” Thrawn’s expression had not relaxed any, even the fractional amount Thelea (Thelea!) had taught him was normal for their species.

“With all due respect, sir,” and it felt only a faint bit sarcastic now, “he’s seen a Star Destroyer’s bridge before, too.”

The doors slid open, and Gir appeared, propelled between two stormtroopers, his hands cuffed in front of him. Rurik cringed inwardly at the relaxed way he was studying his surroundings and hoped that Thrawn only saw the part where his expression curdled into something like abject terror when he realized who was standing in the middle of the room. He actually stopped in his tracks, and in other circumstances Rurik would have laughed at how the troopers bobbled and tried to steady themselves when he did.

This was definitely not a time for laughter. “Thank you, troopers. Wait outside until you’re called, please.” Being stormtroopers, they didn’t hesitate, though Rurik had to wonder if there were any private conversations happening on their helmets’ internal comms.

Giriad had turned as pale at the uniform that had inspired the terror. “Grand Admiral Thrawn . . . .” and then he snapped his mouth shut. He gaze darted to Rurik, and Rurik cringed internally at the mix of fear and betrayal he saw there.

Thrawn studied him for only a moment before recognition dawned. “The late Lieutenant Quoris,” he said, with just a hint of irony. “This is a day for surprises.”

“For a lot of people,” Rurik said. “Admiral, he has a right to know.”

“I gather from his current situation, he is a deserter and a traitor,” Thrawn said. “She wouldn’t approve of that any more than I do.”

“Gir, why don’t you show the Admiral that holoflat of yours and tell him exactly who’s in it?” Rurik said. He hated the way he was making Gir squirm–but Thrawn wasn’t enjoying the situation any more than the prisoner. That was worth quite a bit at the moment.

Gir, for his part, looked blank, then suspicious, then fumbled with the pocket of his crew jumpsuit, not easy with the binders on. Still, he managed to retrieve the little picture, and held it out hesitantly to the Grand Admiral. “I told Rurik–Captain Caelin already, sir, but . . . at Endor, I didn’t know until after the battle what happened. If there was anything I could have done–”

Thrawn took the holoflat and held up a hand, cautioning Giriad to silence. Rurik saw the slight narrowing of the eyes as he studied the image. “Your family, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir, my wife and daughters,” Giriad said hesitantly. “Back on Corus-on Imperial Center. Fiolla and I met after the Rebels rescued . . . captured . . . me at Endor. Our older girl is Binda, she’s almost three. And the baby–“ He caught himself and glanced at Rurik, who gestured for him to go on. “The baby we named Thelea, though we usually just call her Lea for short. I hope–we didn’t know if–well, we meant it as an honor, sir.”

Thrawn visibly flinched at the name. He was still studying the holo, though, expression unreadable. “Our people rarely give names as memorials or honoraria. Our naming conventions don’t often allow for it. I’ve no idea if any other species has ever wanted to name any of their children after one of us. But the sentiment is appreciated.” He looked up. “You will have to tell my Thelea when the opportunity presents itself. Ideally while I am present. I’ll be anxious to see her reaction.”

Giriad opened his mouth, probably for an automatic acquiescence, and then paused. “Sir? I thought that she . . . .” He turned to Rurik, who was struggling to maintain a sabbac face and knew he was failing. “The commander’s alive?”

“Alive, though she uses the rank only as a formality and occasional disguise,” Thrawn said. “She serves my Empire in a different role now, as Captain Caelin has chosen to do. And while I appreciate that you honor my daughter as your former commander and friend, I note that you are here in a somewhat different capacity.” Any hint of a smile was long gone. “Captain Caelin’s somewhat lax treatment of prisoners notwithstanding, you realize that you have committed desertion and treason against the Empire?”

Gir slumped, looking even younger than usual. “Yes, sir. I never intended to. After Endor . . . .” He must have seen the look on Thrawn’s face because he paused. “By the time you showed up, sir, and there was an Empire again, not just crazy warlords and psycho ISB agents, I had a family. I couldn’t just leave them, even if I wanted to. And I’ll never want to. Now with those things we fought before coming back, I want to protect them, and I can’t just walk away from my life now to do it. I don’t think you’re trying to be another Palpatine, but I can’t go back. If that gets me executed for treason, well, so be it, I guess.” It wasn’t the most stirring declaration Rurik had ever heard, but coming from Giriad, it was practically a filibuster in the old Imperial Senate.

Thrawn studied him for a long moment. Gir was clearly struggling not to look away. Finally, the Grand Admiral held out the holoflat, low enough Gir didn’t have to struggle too much in the binders to reach it. “It might interest you to know, Lieutenant, there are other prisoners who feel the same way after learning about the threats beyond the Empire’s borders. You, of course, already are somewhat familiar with our current enemy, as Captain Caelin has reminded me.”

Gir nodded. “Rurik–Captain Caelin–he’d told me the dark ships were still out there, and then Defiance responded to that distress call . . . .” He shuddered. “It was the same as I remember in my nightmares from Dreghan IV and Telamara. Once you see those things you can’t forget them.”

“No, most people cannot,” Thrawn said. “Understand, Lieutenant, I do not condone treason. Not for any reason, even one as . . . appealing as yours appears to be. However, given the circumstances, I cannot afford to waste resources.” He considered again, this time glancing unreadably at Rurik before turning back to Giriad. “You are familiar, I assume, with General bel Iblis?”

“Yes, sir,” and to his credit Gir sounded only slightly surprised. “Not personally, but I do know who he is. Rur-Captain Caelin informed me the general had been captured.”

“He surrendered himself and his fleet at Yag’Dhul,” Thrawn said. “On the condition that they will cooperate, most of his officers and crew have been permitted to remain with their ships while they are repaired. By the time their fleet is ready to return to service, I anticipate any conflicts about control of the Core and Rim will have been resolved. At that time, the focus of these ships’ missions will shift to confronting our mutual enemy, whether in active combat or filling defensive and patrol positions, not unlike Captain Caelin’s battle group has been doing.” His eyes narrowed. “How quickly this occurs will depend on my daughter’s current mission. We are running out of time and I would prefer to finish this conflict without further destruction on either side.”

“You sent Commander Thelea to negotiate a peace treaty?” Gir must have realized the incredulity was probably not going to endear him to the Grand Admiral (or to his ex-wingman either, Rurik thought, trying not to glare) because he added hastily “Not that I don’t think she could be a diplomat! Five years is a long time to learn–I mean she was usually tactful, at least to us and I suppose she must have been to Lord Vader because he didn’t kill her, she just never seemed like a diplomat in general–“

Rurik was struggling not to laugh. Thrawn, for his part, only interrupted, “Lieutenant? When one finds oneself at the bottom of a turbolift shaft, it’s best to stop trying to pry up the deck plates beneath one’s boots.” Gir, still looking a little pale, fell silent. “Though given you both are in fact acquainted with my daughter from before her . . . refocusing of her life, I will grant she has learned a great deal from certain persons about non-military resolutions to conflict. Jedi are, after all, supposed to be versed in diplomacy.”

“Yes, I forgot that,” Rurik said. “Remember that Jedi fugitive we met the first time we ran into those ships? Guess who she works for.”

“Master Aleishia worked, if it could be called that, for my wife,” Thrawn said dryly. “I was aware of her continued existence but until your escapades in Wild Space I hadn’t seen her in several years. We have not always been on the closest of terms but she is the only person available who could help Thelea master her more esoteric abilities. She believed Thelea was ready for this task. I believe she is correct. But until she does succeed and the Rebels are willing to officially accept my terms, the remains of their fleet are here. You say you are unwilling to officially return to Imperial service, Lieutenant?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Gir said, and he sounded genuinely regretful. “But my family-my life-is on Coruscant and until I knew I could do so without putting them at risk or being unable to return to them, I can’t just switch back and forth.”

Thrawn nodded shortly. “I am not completely unsympathetic. However, as I hope Captain Caelin explained, until the conflict is officially resolved we cannot simply release you. But given the situation of General bel Iblis’s ships, there is an alternative to your continued incarceration.”

It was Gir’s turn to look guarded. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“If you agree to the same terms as General bel Iblis’s crews,” Thrawn said, with just enough tension to his voice that Rurik could tell his patience was wearing thin, “then you can be reassigned to one of the Rebel ships undergoing repairs here. As with all the crew, you will be under the command of Imperial officers, and all outgoing communications and travel are of course prohibited until the political situation is resolved. But you will not be a prisoner. And when the situation is resolved, you would once again be in active service, just in a revised chain of command.”

Gir considered that for a moment. “And after that, I’d be able to contact my wife again?”

“You would be permitted the same privileges as any other officer, including leave and communications,” Thrawn said. Rurik decided he’d keep his own council about just how frequent and how long those leaves had been in the last few years. “Depending on your assignment, you might wish to consider moving your family closer to your new ship’s primary base of operations. Regardless of the outcome of negotiations I do not intend for former Rebel ships to be stationed near the Core or each other.”

Gir flinched, but nodded. “That’s . . . more than I have any right to expect. I do have a couple requests, though.”

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should have a talk with my daughter about her command style after all,” he said. “First Captain Caelin, and now you, Lieutenant, seem to mistake orders for negotiations.”

“It’s really not much, sir,” and Gir sounded more polite than Rurik remembered being when he’d countered his promotion with a list of his own demands, all of which, he could always point out, had turned out to be reasonable and even highly beneficial. “I’m a Y-wing pilot and my gunner and astromech were captured with me. I’d like them to transfer with me, even if we can’t have access to our fighter yet.”

Thrawn looked expectantly at Rurik, who confirmed, “We’re holding his gunner with him. Lieutenant Daggair was a deserter as well, but he’s been nothing but cooperative so far. The droid is in storage powered down and with a restraining bolt. We hadn’t gotten around to wiping and repurposing any of them yet.” That the droid designated R3-D6 kept somehow getting moved to a lower-priority list for repurposing, Thrawn did not need to know.

“If your gunner agrees to the same conditions, then a transfer to the same ship seems a minor accommodation,” Thrawn said. “And as you said ‘requests’, I assume there’s something else?”

“Yes, sir, and I don’t think there should be much of a problem with it, if things are that dire.” Something in Gir’s face hardened. “When it’s time to fight those dark ships, I want to be there. No customs patrols or behind-the-lines support postings. Rebel or not, I want to fly against them.”

Thrawn seemed to consider this for a moment. “That would not seem consistent with your desire to return to your wife and daughters,” he said finally, in that deceptively-mild tone.

“I know,” and something in Gir’s voice said that he did, “and I do want to go back to them. But I also want them to be happy and safe. If whoever commands those ships wants to do to the galaxy what I’ve seen them do to places like Telamara, to that ship we just saw destroyed, then they’re not going to be safe. I’m not going to sit back and leave them in danger if I can be out here doing something about it.” His gaze briefly turned to Rurik. “We once went up against them with just Thelea, Ruirk, me, and a few colony defense forces. This won’t be the worst odds I’ve had, and this time it’ll be everyone’s homes we’re fighting for. I don’t want to be left out of that.”

Thrawn, for a minute, didn’t move. His expression was a complete mask, but Rurik had the sense Gir, like him, had passed some sort of test. “I can assure you, Lieutenant,” he said finally, “when it comes to that battle, we will be utilizing every resource we possess. Volunteers, especially those who understand what may be asked of them, will not be turned away.”

Gir sighed, a distinctly relieved sound. “Thank you, Admiral. It’s the best I could hope for, short of going home. And I’m truly glad to know that Thelea’s alive.”

“She will, I’m sure, be happy to know that you are as well,” Thrawn said, and he didn’t sound as if he were simply being polite. “Any reunions, however, will have to wait. Captain,” and for the first time in a while it took Rurik a moment to realize the Admiral was addressing him, “there are certain rites, brief ones, which should be conducted for Ser’halis before the remains are denatured. Master Aleishia will wish to remain with the body until those are concluded. I will expect a complete report on the entire incident, including the weapons and sensor data from the engagement and all contact with the Ascendancy ship.”

“I’ve already ordered a full data dump and compilation be prepared for you, sir,” Rurik said. He wasn’t sure what felt more surreal, giving the appropriate response or how natural it felt. He should still be enraged, should be blind with anger, shouldn’t be able to think of anything but Thrawn’s deceit. He’d knowingly kept Thelea isolated, hidden them from each other . . . but she was alive. And Rurik’s new priority was to stay alive himself until he could see her again.

The repair crews whose reports were waiting for him, the battle cam footage he still needed to review, and most of all the body in the medical bay and the twisted remains of the fighter that had entrapped him were all a reminder of how, Rebellion or no Rebellion, that was still a great deal easier said than done.

  
Mara Jade was not certain why she was still on Coruscant. At the moment, at least, there was no blockade or attack fleet but knowing Thrawn, it was simply a matter of time before the heavy end of the hammer dropped and it wouldn’t be wise to be underneath when it did. Whether Thrawn thought the carnage at Bilbringi was sufficient punishment for Karrde and his people (damned unlikely) or it was simply farther down his list, something that could wait until he was done conquering the galaxy, eventually he’d get around to dealing with those who’d helped his enemies. It wouldn’t be pleasant, and at this point they probably couldn’t even hope it would be short. Karrde was already away, with what paltry means of thanks the dying government could spare, trying to salvage what was left of his people. So Mara had every reason to be burning sky towards the Rim and somewhere far enough off Thrawn’s sensors she’d never find out what he had in mind.

And yet, here she was, watching the Provisional Council of the New Republic in its death throes. Not so long ago, that would have been a pleasure second only to striking down the architect of her and the Empire’s downfall, but now she felt only an odd sort of pity. Inept some of them might be, venial even in Fey’lya’s case, but she felt a grudging sort of respect for those like Leia Organa Solo who were only fighting for what they believed was a better galaxy, something they’d devoted their lives to. Now it was slipping through their fingers.

Mara knew what it felt like when your world collapsed.

She hadn’t expected a second collapse to come at the hands of one of Palpatine’s chosen few. And of all of them, she had never expected a sudden, violent bid for the throne from Grand Admiral Thrawn. He might have been better at hiding his ability to play the political games of the court than most, but the plays he did make had always been designed to put him back in the regions of space from whence he’d come, to the point it was easy for some to underestimate him and others to forget he existed entirely. Now, though, he had taken a dying Empire and a fragmentary fleet and turned it into a fighting force that put even the old Death Squadron to shame, and was a few systems away from returning the Empire to its former glory. Not the Empire she’d been a part of, but he had made it clear he had no interest in running a reformed Republic.

It made the increasingly-small part of her mind that was still the Emperor’s chosen servant wonder just how much he’d been holding back, and how the war with the Rebel Alliance would have gone if Thrawn had been chosen to spearhead it. When he put his not–inconsiderable mind to it, he apparently needed only a handful of Destroyers to wipe out the best the New Republic could bring together. So what had he been focusing that intellect and Imperial resources on all these years, something so consuming he hadn’t even bothered to return until the official remnant had become a diminishing shadow of its old self? Why even bother now?

The sense of someone approaching drew her attention away from pointless speculating. Even now Skywalker’s sense in the Force was distracting, not in any way she found pleasant. How could Darth Vader, of all people, be the father of someone so absurdly, cloyingly, ridiculously good? How many times did you have to tell someone you were going to kill them without them taking the hint?

Of course, from a certain point of view, she had killed a Skywalker. Just not exactly the one she’d intended. Since even here in the Imperial Palace the voice in her mind had not returned, Mara was fairly certain she was free of even that reason to stay.

So why didn’t she leave?

“Any progress?” Luke Skywalker sounded as calm and amiable as always. Even with his beloved Republic about to come crashing down, he had that Jedi calm. Mara was tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of that.

She didn’t. “Unless you count Fey’lya finding a way to blame everyone except for himself as progress, not really. It’s still deadlocked. So, basically new Senate, same as the old Senate.”

“They’re afraid,” Luke said, and she couldn’t tell if he was chiding her for her tone or not. “Since Yag’Dhul, everyone’s afraid.”

“Well, they should be.” Mara shook her head. “We had our shot. With Thrawn, one’s all you get.”

“We destroyed the cloning facility,” Luke pointed out. “He doesn’t have C’baoth any more.”

“That we know of,” Mara countered. “Thrawn might just have been prepared enough to have a replacement ready. The coordinating at Yag’Dhul sure looked like he’s still got a Force-user helping him. And he got four more Star Destroyers from somewhere, with the crews to man them.” Luke only nodded. Unlike, well, everyone except his sister, Luke had never doubted her when she said truthfully she had no idea where four of the reserve fleet that had arrived at Hapes and then showed up to deliver the killing blow at Yag’Dhul had come from. Their leader, at least at Hapes, though, hadn’t been a surprise. Admonitor had been the ship assigned to Thrawn’s alleged punishment tour of the Unknown Regions, and save a few brief forays to the Core, hadn’t been seen since. The real surprise was he’d bothered choosing another flagship for his Core campaign in the first place.

Mara shook her head, this time to clear it. She knew, better than anyone else in the room, that trying to figure out Thrawn’s motivations was usually a waste of time.

Luke, at least, wasn’t smiling, though he still had that serene sense that was so irritating. “And the Katana dreadnaughts. I guess the big mystery is why he’s not picking off what’s left of the Core. Maybe his fleet’s not as strong as he wants us to think. Or maybe he’s got something besides a battle in mind.”

“If he’s hoping your Council will decide to throw themselves on his mercy, he’s going to have a long wait,” and she gestured to the meeting going on at the center of the chamber.

Fey’lya was speaking again, his cream-colored ruffling in unease and perhaps a bit of contained anger. Mara could have reached out, she supposed, used her resurgent abilities to try and gauge his real mood, but even if Skywalker probably would have called it good practice, it seemed beside the point. “We have now seen two fleets destroyed, our allies proven helpless to defend their own star cluster, and we know that the Grand Admiral’s own flagship has jumped to Coruscant and safely retreated at least once before, leaving chaos in their wake. The only remaining question, Councilors, is why he has not finished us once and for all?”

“Because he can’t be as strong as you think.” Leia Organa Solo sounded tired, and Mara felt a certain degree of empathy for her. “General bel Iblis–“ and her voice caught just a bit, but she gathered herself up again almost instantly, “might not have defeated the Imperial fleet at Yag’Dhul, but he hurt them. They can be slowed. They can be stopped. We’ve seen that.”

“With what, Councilor Organa Solo?” Fey’lya retorted. “The bulk of our fleet is destroyed or captured. The planetary defenses cannot protect Coruscant forever. Are your Noghri commandoes going to defend the Senate for us? Oh, of course, they cannot. Those on your ill-advised private mission are dead–“

“And Thrawn’s cloning facility was destroyed,” Leia interrupted, but Fey’lya ignored her.

“–And their homeworld was assaulted by an Imperial battle group and we have had no communication since, costing us a corvette and its entire crew in the process!” Fey’lya’s cream-colored fur bristled. “It is time we faced the reality of the situation.”

Mara heard a low hiss behind her, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Luke only shook his head, obviously accustomed to his permanent shadow. “The Noghri sacrifices won’t be forgotten,” he said, and she knew he was speaking to the commando ghosting behind him. “Fey’lya is just afraid.”

“Nor will they be wasted, Son of Vader,” the gravelly voice said from somewhere over her shoulder.

“I’m not my father, or the Grand Admiral,” Luke said, and Mara suppressed a snort of laughter only with supreme effort. If there was anyone less like either of the Noghri’s previous masters than Luke Skywalker in the entire galaxy, she’d eat a mynock, raw. “I won’t ask you to fight for the New Republic in my name.”

“We will fight in our names,” the Noghri–Ekrikhor, if Mara remembered correctly–said. “It is our war as well.”

“What’s left of it,” Mara said, ignoring the pointed, chiding look from Luke.

At the head of the table, Mon Mothma looked particularly worse for wear. The Chief of State and longtime symbol of the Rebellion had aged almost overnight, her already-thin face pinched, her eyes dark from lack of sleep. Mara hadn’t seen enough of her in the years since Endor to know if the gray hairs were more numerous in recent weeks, but they weren’t flattering. She was listening more than she was speaking, which seemed to be normal, but there was a weariness to it now, as if her mind were occupied elsewhere. Guilt? Probably, and not so long ago Mara would have been pleased at the Empire’s public enemy number one finally feeling some sort of remorse, but now she only felt a distant kind of sympathy. Thrawn might not be even half as bloodthirsty as some, but there was small chance he wouldn’t make an example of the Rebellion’s founder. Her options were to flee or wait for the end, and she had the distinct look of someone who lacked the energy to run any farther.

“What do you suggest we do, Councilor Fey’lya?” Sien Tevv, the Sullustan, asked. “Surrender?”

“At this point, it is one of our options, yes,” the Bothan said. “The others are equally unappealing. Surrender and throw ourselves on the Grand Admiral’s mercy?” There was a derisive laugh from most of the rest. “Fight on until Coruscant falls? Or do we flee and become the Rebel Alliance again? With failure behind us, fewer allies, and fewer resources?”

“The people of Corellia will not stand for cowering in surrender,” Doman Beruss said from her seat to Mon Mothma’s left. “There must be another way. The Corellian system isn’t under Imperial domination yet and we won’t follow others down such a black hole.”

Councilor Verrineffra, the Elom, sniffed. “Should we relocate to Corellia, then? At least, until the Imperials’ control of the Trade Spine junction begins to hurt.”

“As it already has here,” Leia said. “Our focus must be on regaining control of the trade routes and reinforcing our defenses in preparation of retaking Yag’Dhul.”

“Retake Yag’Dhul with what fleet?” Fey’lya retorted, and the Ithorian and Duro delegates were making gestures of agreement. “A few fighters? Shall we conscript personal craft? I’d suggest your smuggler allies’ fleet, but they seem to have vanished down the bolt-holes they crept out of.”

Mara bristled, and didn’t feel much better when Luke put a hand that was probably supposed to be reassuring, not restraining, on her shoulder. “You and Karrde have done all you could,” he said, and that wasn’t as flattering as he probably meant it to be, either. “He’s taking care of his people. They can’t blame him for that.”

“I wouldn’t be the moisture farm on it if I were you,” she muttered back. Mon Mothma hadn’t. Even Ackbar, with his notorious Mon Cal opinion of smugglers, had thanked Karrde for his help, particularly in acquiring the ysalamiri which had done precisely nothing to help at Yag’Dhul. Either Thrawn didn’t have any more Force-users, or they hadn’t been fooled for a moment.

There was a faint sound behind them, so quiet Mara wasn’t sure if she’d heard it as much as sensed it, and then a brief exchange in the Noghri’s mewling speech. Luke turned, but Mara’s attention was drawn back to the Council chamber, where a young security officer (who looked as tense and tired as any of the Councilors) was speaking quietly to Mon Mothma.

The Chief Councilor rose, drawing the attention of the others and cutting off the bickering. Before Mara could hear what she said, Luke tapped her on shoulder again as he rose. “Come on,” he said, “they’re going to need us.”

“What’s happened?” Mara wondered why the first thing out of her mouth wasn’t in fact “What do you mean ‘us’?”

“The Noghri think we’re needed at the security hangar. A shuttle was just directed down there. An Imperial Zeta-class shuttle, but with a passenger who claims to be a Republic pilot.” She caught the flare of hope behind his words. Too many of his friends were missing, presumed worse. “Only from what Cakhmaim heard, he isn’t claiming to be an escapee. He says he’s brought visitors.”

  
Mara was surprised more of the Council hadn’t barged down there. Mon Mothma, clearly, was not interested in hearing about security, Leia less so, and either no one wanted to argue with Ackbar, Fey’lya, or Beruss or they weren’t overly concerned about any of their safety. She wasn’t surprised that the security detail let Luke pass, but she didn’t miss the sideways look she got as she followed him in. The hangar had otherwise been cleared of non-security personnel, and the Zeta shuttle, ramp down but no one yet disembarking, sat in a cleared-out space where it was covered by several troopers and the bay’s mounted lasers.

It was certainly an older shuttle. The heavy tanks on the side bespoke its original purpose as a long-range transport, and dimly Mara remembered Thrawn’s request for them, and his notable use of one to send his assigned Army commander back to the Core in disgrace. This one looked in recent repair, and snuck a glance at Luke. The blue eyes, usually so open and gormless, were narrowed, and he was studying the craft intently. She didn’t have to ask if there was anyone on board, or if he could clearly read their intentions. The answers were clearly yes, and no.

She saw Leia Organa Solo look their way, and Luke’s shoulders twitch just a hair. Then he said, in such a low whisper Mara suspected he meant the words aloud for her and had sent to his sister via the Force, “Multiple beings, and at least one clone.”

There was movement and the sound of boot plates, and Mara saw shadows on the ramp. Beyond that, there was the all-too-familiar clatter of stormtrooper armor. Mara automatically reached for her hold-out blaster in its arm sheath, but paused. Luke was still watching the shuttle ramp, but while his hand was resting near the hilt of his lightsaber, he wasn’t gripping it yet.

Two figures, basically humanoid, appeared in the shadows of the ramp. As they came down into the light, Mara heard Luke’s sharp intake of breath and saw the startled reactions from the others.  
“Corran!” Luke moved forward, and Mara heard an uneasy movement behind them–the Noghri bodyguard, yet again annoyed with the Son of Vader’s indifference to his personal safety.

The human–because one of the figures was, and one definitely wasn’t–turned at the sound Luke’s voice and, despite looking very tired, grinned. “Luke! Tell me Mirax hasn’t sold all my things and run off with a pirate Booster would approve of?” Then he caught himself, and looked at the other person who’d come down the ramp with him.

Mara was looking at her, too. Black fleet uniform, but no rank badge, only a comlink and a command cylinder in the chest pockets. Not very tall–maybe a few centimeters shy of Mara’s height, though she managed to be taller than Leia. Of course, most of that paled beside the fact that she was a she, and she was definitely not human. Her blue skin, the blue-black braid of hair that shimmered just a bit in the light, and the glowing red eyes left no doubt about what species she was, and somewhere in Mara’s hyper-trained memory, she was ringing an alarm. The alien female, though, was looking at Corran, a slight, vaguely-familiar smile curving her lips.

“I said you’d be free to go once we had arrived, Lieutenant Horn. We’ve arrived. You’re free to go.” Her accent was clipped and precise, Core-world Basic with an Imperial accent.

Horn nodded, but he glanced back at the ramp and the person coming down it, who was being followed by four white-armored troopers. “I’ll try to pass along your message.”

The second figure stepped into view and Mara blinked. Another alien, a tall male the same species as the female and Thrawn, this one in a black uniform vaguely reminiscent of an Imperial officer’s, but not quite. He’d obviously been the one Horn was talking to, as he nodded in response, but his glowing eyes were on the female. She glanced back at him and the troopers, her head inclined just a bit. Mara didn’t notice any other change of expression, but some sort of communication must have happened, as the male officer fell back a pace. There were four stormtroopers behind him, and two of them stopped at the base of the ramp while two more paced him, leaving the woman to take point.

Thrawn’s clearly been making more changes than he mentioned.

The security men gestured for Corran to hurry, though the Rogue Squadron veteran didn’t pick up his pace too much. Whatever the shuttle ride had been like he clearly didn’t feel in any danger now. Nor, going by her attitude, did the female officer. She walked forward a few more paces, her glowing gaze fixed on Mon Mothma. There was something more than simple confidence or even arrogance about her, as if she drew on some inner strength and refused to be intimidated by her surroundings. Once again, Mara had a nagging sense of familiarity.

The alien woman studied Mon Mothma for a moment, clearly aware of the troopers to either side. “Chief Councilor Mon Mothma?” It was a question, but clearly not one she actually required the answer to. When the only response was a slight nod, she continued, “My name is Commander Thelea. I have come on the Grand Admiral’s behalf to open negotiations with your government.” That part was not a request.

Mon Mothma regarded the woman for a long minute herself, not speaking. Mara noted the other Councilors, Fey’lya’s fur rippling anxiously, Ackbar unreadable as only a Mon Cal could be, and Organa Solo, something defiant in her dark eyes. Finally, Mon Mothma said, “Negotiations for our surrender?” Her tone was soft, unemotional, unreadable.

Commander Thelea’s eyebrow quirked, and her lip did too, in a half-smile that sent a shiver of recognition down Mara’s spine. She knew she had seen that smile before. “That is one of the matters I am here to negotiate, Chief Councilor” Thelea replied. “I hope you are open to discussion. If so, I suggest we begin. If not, I would request my escort and I be permitted to leave.” Her tone was quiet, but there was no mistaking the durasteel in her voice. If they were told to leave, they’d go. If someone tried to prevent them going . . . .

Mon Mothma hesitated again, but only for a moment. It was the faintest nod, but it was acquiescence. “Of course we will hear what you have to say.” The troopers stepped back a bit, then tensed again as more stormtroopers came down the ramp.

Commander Thelea didn’t glance back. “I hope you understand that I have brought my own security. Commander Stent and my troopers will of course be accompanying me.”

“Of course,” and there was less of a pause this time. “You will understand of course if we request your movement about the palace be limited during your time here.”

“Naturally.” It was hard to tell if she was being sarcastic, or her tone was simply that dry.

“You brought a prisoner with you.” Leia’s voice was anything but soft or conciliatory. “What is the Grand Admiral’s intention there?”

Thelea studied her for a moment, those eyes making it nearly impossible to gauge her response. “A gesture of good faith,” she said finally, in that same unreadable tone. “I have a list of prisoners currently being held in Imperial custody and a message from General be Iblis which includes the identities of those officers and crew aboard the Rebel vessels being refitted at our shipyards.” If she noticed the flinches at the world ‘Rebel’, she gave no outward sign. Mara had thought the cool act was a habit of Thrawn’s, but going by these two it was a species trait.

“You expect us to believe you?” Given Thrawn’s personal attacks, like the kidnap attempt Mara herself had helped foil, she couldn’t blame Leia’s open skepticism.

If she noticed the hostile tone, though, Thelea didn’t appear to care. “Yes,” she said. “It does not serve us to lie, and even if we were, you have few alternatives.”

Leia looked as if she wanted to argue that point, but Mon Mothma raised a hand. “They have come to negotiate,” she said quietly. “Given the circumstances, it would be best to hear them out.”

Mara heard Luke let out a slow breath, and felt a grudging admiration for his serene control, even as she could almost feel the sympathy for his sister he was containing. She was about to say something sotto voce, probably something about having had her fill of awkward unanncounced visitors back on Myrkr, but suddenly Luke’s eyes widened, and he leapt forward.

She heard his shout even as she felt the sudden unrestrained rush as he gathered the Force to his control. “Cakhmaim, no!”

In the center of the hangar, Thelea had started to step towards Mon Mothma, who was turning, presumably intending to introduce the Councilors and lead them back to the chamber. The alien male and the stormtroopers had paused, apparently waiting for instructions from Commander Thelea. Luke was staring past them, into the shadows of the security shuttles parked along the sides of the hangar, at the small, child-size, black-cloaked shadow that had appeared out of concealment. Mara was moving a second later, as she saw what Luke had sensed or foreseen:

The glittering silver knife already flying from the Noghri’s grip towards Commander Thelea’s unprotected back.

Mara nearly slammed into Luke as he came to a halt as abruptly as he’d started. The stormtroopers had spun into defensive postures and the alien officer suddenly had a weapon in his hand. The security forces were suddenly on alert, too, only they seemed uncertain where they should be pointing their weapons. The Councilors looked just a confused, Fey’lya’s fur stiffly bristled, Ackbar turning to allow his widely-spaced eyes the full view of the situation. Mara noticed with a certain distracted feeling of professional approval that Leia had her lightsaber in her hand.

She stepped around Luke, finally getting a look at why he’d come to his sudden stop and why he suddenly had the sense of someone who’d been plowed into by a charging ronto. She could see why now.

Cakhmaim had thrown the knife, but somehow his arm had never completed the swing down. He was standing still-perfectly still. Too much so.

That wasn’t half as disconcerting as the knife, handing suspended in the air two-thirds of the way to its target. And Commander Thelea had turned and was now standing, one gloved hand outstretched, fingers half-curled, her glowing eyes fixed on the would-be assassin.

Mara blinked, wishing she had the control she used to have and could analyze the energies at play. “You doing this?” she muttered, low enough her voice wouldn’t carry.

Luke, not turning to look at her, shook his head slowly. “I’m not,” he said, and it spoke to how much time she’d spent with him that Mara wasn’t surprised he sounded more admiring than anything. “She is.”


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a wee bit short, but it was a nice dramatic stopping point.  Next time, the wheels of politics grind slowly, Thelea’s romantic chickens come home to roost, and Thrawn has a very strange dream...or is it a dream?  Note that for all I’ve looked, in Crisis of Faith the Stromma are never described physically.  So I just made something up.  Blame Zahn for being vague.
> 
>  

 

 

 

 

Thelea only realized what she was doing when she found herself holding the would-be assassin locked in a Force grip, the knife suspended between them.  The confusion and alarm from the Council behind her, even a flash of quickly-suppressed satisfaction from some quarter was nearly as distracting as the sudden intense alert from Stent and her guards.  All of it, though, had almost been drowned out by a massive flare of alarm that had accompanied the shout, a wash of Force-energy so bright and so strong it was like standing before Lord Vader again only instead of stifling, choking fear this was warmth and strength and reassurance.  Except where it had almost thrown off her own reaction prompted by the premonitive fear and the vision of the knife.  There was no question in her mind who the source of that had to be.

 

Skywalker.

 

She heard the safeties coming off blaster rifles and shoved the thought aside.  She could think about the galaxy’s most wanted after this didn’t turn into a bloodbath and epic failure.  “Stent, stand down!” She spoke Cheunh, knowing the troopers would understand her too.  “Stand down now!  I’ll deal with this.”

 

“Thelea–“ There was something almost charming about the real worry she sensed behind his professionally-controlled tone, but that was below the Jedi on the list of things she had time to worry about now.

 

“I said stand down!  I have this under control and they’re as surprised as we are.”  She felt her prisoner wobble just slightly in her telekinetic grip and she turned her full focus back to him.  The knife completed its flip, but now dropped harmlessly hilt-first into her hand.  It looked, she thought, exactly like the knife that had so nearly been thrown at her father, and the fingers of her artificial left hand twitched.  Deliberately wiping the blade on her sleeve (but noticing it left no telltale marks from any obvious liquids or powders,) she advanced on her Force-pinned captive, forcing herself to tune out the distracting emotions roiling behind her.

 

The Noghri commando’s body might have been locked in place, but she could read the expression in the glittering black eyes well enough without resorting to the Force.  It was a fair sort of hatred, she supposed.  She hadn’t known about her father’s revenge on Honoghr until after it was over, but even in restraint the kind of punishment betrayal on that level merited had been crushing.  Though she’d never have said it aloud, in some ways she agreed with her Master–understandable as Thrawn’s desire to lash out against their treason might be given  Rukh’s attempt on him, and (Aleishia had taken pains to point out) the near-death of his daughter, it was the kind of retribution that would not help when the time came to ask for peace.

 

Though, on a visceral and very un-Jedi-like level, Thelea also felt a bizarre sort of happiness that the greatest factor in her father’s decision had been not the harm to the grand strategy or the attack on him, but that she had been maimed.  There was something downright heartwarming about knowing how much he really did care.   _And I thought Mother’s family was unhealthy.  I suppose we’re just as bad._

 

She forced herself to focus on the here and now.  “What is your name, Noghri?”  She kept her tone cold, but not angry.  Anger served no purpose here.

 

For a moment, he was silent, the hatred burning into her.  She didn’t flinch.  Finally, he growled, “I am Cakhmaim clan Eikh’mir.”

 

Thelea inclined her head.  The name meant nothing in particular to her, beyond knowing it was not the same at Rukh’s nor the fugitive Kabarakh clan Khim’bar’s, but let him and the watching Rebels think she had the same encyclopedic knowledge of the clans as her father.  “Tell me, Cakhmaim clan Eikh’mir,” she said, trying to keep her tone as calm and even as her father would in the same scenario, as Master Aleishia did even talking to aliens in the far fringes who’d never seen a human or a Chiss and were debating whether one or both was edible.  “Do all Noghri tip their blades with poison, as Rukh clan Baik’vair did? In case your aim is less than true?”

 

He hissed, her hold allowing him enough freedom of movement to grit his snoutlike jaw.  “Poison is a coward’s weapon.  You lie that my kinsman would do so.”

 

“Do I?”  Carefully she tucked the knife into her belt and tugged first her right glove, then her left, free, revealing the mismatched skin.  “Strange, then.  I wonder how the poison found its way onto the blade that took my arm and was meant for your lord the Grand Admiral’s heart.  By way of his back.”  She drew his knife out again.  “As you meant this for mine.  Are all Noghri so without honor they do not dare strike from the front?”

 

Cakhmaim made a low growling sound.  “Some targets are without honor.  Our false lord the Grand Admiral is one such.  He dealt falsely with us, and his ships struck at the hearts of the families of the Noghri people.  So I strike at the heart of _his_ , daughter of our false lord!”

 

Thelea felt the surges of surprise from behind her.  So much from bringing up that topic slowly.  No point in wishing to build where the glacier had already calved, though.  “If merely wounding me through treachery prompted such reprisal,” she said, as mildly as she could, “what do you think my father would have done if your knife found its mark?”

 

She wasn’t sure if the flinch she saw was surprise or indifference.  “Then there would be more blood between us, and more Noghri would strike in revenge.”

 

Thelea studied him for a minute, making him nervous and buying herself time to seek out the sense of the people behind her.  Stent was on full alert, with that tiny little frisson of worry underlying it all that made her feel vaguely guilty.  The troopers wanted to shoot but they were stormtroopers who’d been ordered to obey her.  She had said hold.  They held.  Behind her . . . her mind skirted away from the sun-glow sense of Luke Skywalker and fixed on the others.  In the diplomatic crash course her father had given, he’d made her memorize the known members of the so-called New Republic’s Provisional Council.   _Mon Mothma–Chandrilla, the Rebel’s founder and leader, though I can’t guess why–like brittle glass and calm at least, she’s only afraid this will make things worse, but can’t see how . . . Fey’lya, our useful idiot, selfish and self-serving but just as scared, Ackbar, and_ she choked down revulsion at the commander of her worst defeat, _doesn’t want this to go to hell.  Two other humans–the null one, older, Berus of Corellia–wait and see, smart one there.  The other . . . ._

 

Thelea grimaced inwardly.  Organa Solo.  Force-sensitive, not in the league her brother was, but enough, trying to block now that she knew Thelea could read her, but no mistaking, that was where the brief flash of triumph had come from, even now a smothered anger she thought was righteous as she waited for Thelea to take revenge.

 

And one other–dark-tinged but no darker than Thelea herself, not strong as Skywalker either but controlled, trained, hard as ice–Emperor’s Hand.  All that effort to steal Karrde from under the Grand Admiral’s nose, and she wasn’t with him now?  Still, she was at least watching, waiting, letting the scenario play out.  

 

Then Thelea let herself turn to the Force-sense that nearly drowned out everything else in the room.  Skywalker.  Empire’s enemy number one.  Destroyer of the Death Star, slayer of Vader and the Emperor or so they said, and yet–of all of them, he was the only one from whom she felt no hostility, no hatred for who and what she represented, just surprise and an odd sort of sympathy that seemed in some way personal.  And unlike all the others, no fear of whatever she meant to do next.  

 

Which left her with the matter of what, in fact, to do next.

 

She stared at the Noghri, schooling her face to perfect neutrality.  If she killed him, there was very little the Rebels could do.  Arrest her? Perhaps, but she knew Stent and her guards wouldn’t permit that.  And in any case, Cakhmaim had attempted to kill her-admitted it and owned it.  She would be in many ways justified.  

 

Still . . . if she killed him, not only would what should have been diplomatic negotiations begin with bloodshed, it was possible they would not begin at all.  And while it might be the end of things, it was entirely possible some other Noghri would come for her.  Or her father. Or some other Imperial target.  And then her father would strike at them again, and any survivors would take their turn . . . .

 

_Are you going to hurt him?_

 

Thelea absently brushed the question aside before it dawned on her that she had done so in her thoughts, and that the other had spoken there as well.  And it was not a voice she knew.  Instead it was male, soft, an accent that seemed vaguely backwater to her ear . . . . _Skywalker._  She hadn’t realized she’d thought that so clearly until she felt the confirmation, tinged with curiosity and a hesitant sort of warmth.

 

It took an effort to form a thought intended for someone  other than Master Aleishia, but she managed: _I told my people to stand down. Same for you. I will deal with this my way._  She felt the uncertain acknowledgment and forced herself to focus on the Noghri.

 

This was either going to work, or it was going to send everything straight to hell.  Thelea drew the knife from her belt and hoped Cakhmaim was telling the truth about the poison.  “You claim there is blood between our families, and you seek to shed mine in revenge.”  She relaxed her hold on the Noghri, just a trace.  “Very well.”  

 

She drew the fine-tipped blade across the palm of her right, real, hand, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from wincing and ignoring the sudden, sharp intake of breath she heard from Stent’s direction.  There was no burning so far, beyond the pain of a cut, no spreading warmth or dizziness, and she began to think she might get away with this.  Blood welled up in the cut, and she turned her hand, palm down, until drops fell on the deck.

 

“I am afraid, Cakhmaim clain Eikh’mir, that is all I can spare at the moment to sate your bloodlust, but I give it to you.”  Thelea kept her voice as calm as possible, but she heard the faint arch accent herself, that echo of the High Families even in Basic.  “Accept it, and understand this is the end.  If you or any of your people seek to harm my father or my people again, I will not be merciful.  Do you understand?”

 

For a moment, the glistening black eyes tracked the drops as they fell to the deck, and his nostrils flared, no doubt recognizing the distinct scents, the ones that marked her as her father’s child.  “Very well, daughter of the Grand Admiral,” he hissed finally.   Then he looked past her.

 

Thelea felt the movement near her shoulder almost as much as the presence of the other.  Skywalker stepped cautiously to her side.  “Cakhmaim,” he said, after an inquiring look at Thelea.  “This can’t happen again.  I’m sorry,” and he turned to her.  “The Noghri take betrayal very personally.  Thank you, though, for sparing him.”  He looked down, the intense blue eyes fixing on her hand.  “Are you in pain?”

 

“I’m fine.”  She clenched her fist, willing the bleeding to slow.  It burned like clutching dry ice, but  dying would have been preferable to admitting such minor pain.  “And I am not unacquainted with the desire to defend one’s family.  Or avenge them.  But I will not negotiate with knives at my back.”  She flexed her left, human-like hand again.  “I’m running out of body parts to donate to the cause.”

 

Skywalker looked down at his own right hand for some reason, but he nodded.  Then he looked to the Noghri again.  “Cakhmaim, it might be best if you and the other Noghri return to Leia and Han’s quarters until we have to time to speak.  I would hate for there to be any more . . . accidents with our guests.”  Thelea pressed her lips together and didn’t say anything, but accident was as good a word as any.

 

The Noghri hesitated a moment longer, then bowed, his hands pressed together in front of him.  “As you order, son of Vader.”

 

If the Rebels’ response to Cakhmaim dubbing her ‘daughter of our false lord’ had been startled, it paled compared to the shock of ice that plunged through Thelea’s veins, and the ripple of disbelief that shuddered through the stormtroopers.  Stent only looked puzzled, but then he didn’t know, had never seen, never understood. 

 

Thelea took an stunned half-step back.  “What did he call you?”

 

Luke winced.  “He called me ‘son of Vader.’  The Noghri used to serve Lord Vader.  And Darth Vader-Anakin Skywalker–was my father.”

 

Thelea ground her fingers into her injured palm, just to see if pain cleared up this obvious hallucination.  Or perhaps there had been drugs on the knife after all.  “That is impossible.  I served under Lord Vader.  I met him once, and I was happy to escape with my neck.  I might not have been in much control of my . . . senses at the time, but I do know that if there is anyone in the entire galaxy less like Darth Vader in any respect, it’s you.”  

 

“Well, I am shorter.”  And Vader had definitely never shown anything resembling self-deprecating  humor that she’d ever head.

 

“If we’re talking about children who don’t take after their parents,” said another voice, female, just a trace too loud, and ideal for breaking the tension like cracking a glass.  Mara Jade was standing, arms crossed, smirking at her.  And Thelea had the distinct sense it was a show, not so much for her or for Luke but for the others, shattering the mood that had been building.  “You definitely don’t get your height from the paternal side.”  There was a distinct snort behind her, quickly stifled, that sounded suspiciously like Stent.

 

“Emperor’s Hand,” and Thelea hoped she was at least climbing back towards having the upper hand.  “You, I was warned about.  Father wasn’t pleased about you absconding with his prisoner, and Captain Pellaeon would like a word about holes cut in decks and grates.”

 

“Your dear old dad and I didn’t really part on the best of terms,” she said amiably, and Thelea felt the sense of being in a show increase.  And going by the tension draining from the audience, it was working.  “I don’t take well to being figuratively stabbed in the back.”  She studied Thelea with a critical eye.  “Now I remember where I’ve seen you before.  The alien girl at the Academy.  You came to a graduation ball–Parck’s idea, if I remember right.  Too bad there’s not many left from the old court–finding out the smart money was right could settle a lot of bets.”

 

It was hardly the priority, but Thelea couldn’t help herself.  “The ‘smart money?’”

 

Mara nodded, still with that half-smirk.  “When you turned up with Thrawn’s career on the rise, everyone had ideas about who you really were.  Smart money, given your sponsors and your . . .unique characteristics, was you were his kid he was giving hand up to make up for whatever circumstances resulted in, well, you existing.  Stupid money was you were his or Parck’s mistress.  Or both.”  

 

Thelea couldn’t help the grimace, or noticing the implications of the smart-money bet.  “I hope you didn’t have money on either option.  The correct answer is I am Mitth’ele’arana, legitimate daughter of  Lady Reli’set’harana and her very legal husband Mitth’raw’nuruodo.  Though I suppose in his usual obscure way Father was trying to make up for things that weren’t entirely his fault.  You of anyone here would know how he does things.”

 

“Not everything, apparently,” Mara said, the smug, deliberately-distracting act abruptly gone.  “I suppose if anyone was going to hide an entire life from . . . the Imperial Court, Thrawn would be the one to do it.  And since he saw the women of the court, I suppose I can’t blame him for keeping his own wife and daughter anonymous.” 

 

Thelea flinched and she wasn’t sure what was worse, the sudden understanding in Mara’s eyes or the flare of warm, genuine sympathy from Skywalker.  Luke said softly, “Your mother–she’s–“

 

“Dead, yes,” Thelea said quietly.  “Long before–well, anything.  But you are half-right,” she said to Mara.  “Father felt it best my own identity not be known.  Given your understanding of the Imperial court and what almost happened here, you can, of course, see why.”  

 

“I hope you know, this was not our intent,” Luke said, and she didn’t have to be Force-sensitive to feel his sincerity.  “We want to hear what you have to say.”

 

“You could hardly have planned an assassination attempt when you couldn’t have known I was coming,” she said as mildly as she could.  “Though considering the attempt on my father’s life, perhaps I’m being generous.” 

 

She’d raised her voice enough for the others to hear, and listened.  The flares of shock felt real enough.  Even the Emperor’s Hand was surprised and she was, so Father had explained, the Emperor’s assassin.  (And a potentially valuable ally, but only if her view could be changed.) So Rukh had not been acting on Rebel orders?  Curious.   

 

Mon Mothma was watching, her thin face looking pinched and pale.  “We can summon a medical droid,” she said, staring at Thelea’s hand.  

 

Thelea waved the offer away, once again steeling her features to hide any sign of even minor irritation.  “Unnecessary.  It’s just a scratch.”  She could feel Stent practically seething behind her and ignored him.  He could complain in private later, run tale-telling to her father if he liked.  She pulled the glove over her wounded palm and tried to ignore it.  “The bleeding will stop soon enough, and I would prefer not to lose any more time.”   

 

Mon Mothma looked less than convinced, but she nodded.  “Then if you’ll permit us a few moments to reconvene the Provisional Council, we would be willing to hear the Grand Admiral’s message.”  She glanced at her fellows, and Thelea reached out with the Force, but she sensed no real resistance.  They might not be eager for this meeting, but they were resigned to it.

 

Except one.  “After that?  We’re just going to pretend nothing happened?”  Leia Organa Solo said.  “Cakhmaim might have acted impulsively–“

 

“Leia,” and it was amazing how much Skywalker could put into a single name.  His sister stared at him for a moment, and Thelea felt a twinge of sympathy.  She could understand Leia’s temper far better than her brother’s and if their situations were reversed, she’d likely be just as reluctant to hear the Rebels out.  

 

His sister’s dark eyes fixed on the Jedi for a moment, but finally she nodded.  “I apologize, Mon Mothma.”  Though not, Thelea noted, to her.

 

From the slight twitch of one shoulder the Chief Councilor had not missed that.  Still, she nodded to Thelea.  “If you’ll come this way, there are chambers where you may rest and prepare while the Council reconvenes.”  She paused, and looked at Luke.  “Perhaps Commander Skywalker would escort you.”

 

“Certainly,” Luke said, and Thelea was again surprised not only at the kindness, but the eagerness.  Though of course it would be interesting, in many ways, to actually meet another Force-user, one who’d been trained by a Jedi, too–and then she realized, _Of course.  It will be interesting.  And he’s just as curious as I am._

 

Still, one had to be cautious.  “I’d appreciate it,” she said.  “Commander Stent and four of the squad will accompany me, of course, with the remaining troopers guarding the shuttle.  If that is acceptable, of course.”  She let her tone frost just a bit.  “I am sure the Noghri are not the only ones who might have a bone to pick with the Empire.  Not that I don’t trust you, Chief Councilor, but one must be prudent.”

 

“I understand completely.”  

 

Understand that if I’m hurt, or worse, Father will be here with an invasion fleet before they can even gather up the ships to evacuate.  It wasn’t the most diplomatic start to things, but Thelea supposed it could have been worse.  “Lead the way, Chief Councilor.”  As she fell into step beside the Rebel leader, she felt Stent close behind, no doubt ready to place himself between her and any further attacks from that direction, and she also sensed the bright warmth of Luke Skywalker.  Not as close, but in her wake, and she found herself wondering again how Darth Vader could have had anything to do with the creation of such a willfully good person.  Her own mercifully brief experience of the Dark Lord of the Sith had not given her the impression of a loving father.

 

Then again, based on Jade’s reaction and the story of the revolting wagers she’d related, few who knew Grand Admiral Thrawn would believe him capable of having sired any child, either.  And thinking on her own experience with Vader not so long before the Fleet’s transfer to Endor . . . hadn’t there been the strange sense of sadness?  She’d written it off as her imagination, but could a Dark Lord have regrets?  Could it have involved family?

 

If so, Thelea thought, perhaps she could at least find common ground with one Rebel.  The rest . . . .well, she’d start with the Jedi.  

 

 

Having never witnessed the old Imperial Senate in its full sycophantic glory, let alone its Republic predecessor, and accustomed to the Ascendancy’s regimented ways that even applied in politics, Thelea was not sure what she’d expected from the Provisional Council.  Even the sad, frustrated stories Aleishia had told of the Old Republic in its dying days, with the corrupt and the inept crowding out the rational . . . but even knowing that, Thelea had not been expecting quite so much shouting.

 

And she hadn’t even presented her case yet.

 

Stent seemed less than impressed.  “If this is how they decide whether you’ll be allowed to speak, what chance do we have of their seeing reason?” he murmured near her ear in Cheunh, low enough even the troopers couldn’t hear.

 

“Father warned me to expect chaos,” she replied in kind.  “I’m not sure even he anticipated quite this much.”

 

It wasn’t even the noise that bothered her so much.  It was the looks from a good percentage of the Councilors directed their way.  She was standing, Stent just at her shoulder, two meters behind Mon Mothma’s position as the rostrum, which gave her a clear view of the oval chamber.  There were nowhere near as many representatives as the old Imperial Senate had held, but enough, from enough races, that she had to restrain herself, dampen down her sense of the room in the Force, or the conflicting alien thoughts would overwhelm her.  As it was, the overriding sense of fear and anger  was making her ill, and she wondered distractedly how Skywalker could stand it.

 

“No!” The booming voice belonged to an orange-skinned Twi’lek, and he managed to make himself heard over the din that had greeted Mon Mothma’s announcement of their guests.  “We will not hear Imperial poison!  Nor will we tolerate the insult of stormtroopers here in this chamber.”  

 

“Arrest them!”  The Kel Dor’s breathing mask certainly didn’t hinder his ability to shout.  “This is still the capital of the Republic and they are war criminals!”

 

“And have the Grand Admiral come to retrieve his envoys himself?”  Ackbar’s gurgling Mon Cal accent was getting easier to understand as Thelea had already learned to pick it out as a voice of reason in all the shouting.  “Shall we demonstrate our principles to the worlds that remain in the Repbulic by arresting a delegation under a flag of truce?”

 

“Since you no longer command the fleet,” the Duros representative said, “you see no alternatives to surrender!”

 

“What fleet?” Stent murmured, still in their language, low enough for only Thelea’s ears.

 

“At least Ackbar isn’t suicidal,” she replied.  “These civilians, though . . . .”

 

“Perhaps,” said a voice that rippled like the cream-colored fur of the speaker, “we should consider their words.”  Fey’lya very deliberately did not look at the ‘guests’, but Thelea could feel his distraction–he was reading the room as much as focusing on them.  Her father had warned her to beware the Bothan’s motives.  Any overtures he might make would almost certainly be a plan for his own and the Bothans’ interests, not the Republic’s or the galaxy’s.  While that was understandable on its face, it was not necessarily going to serve their ends.  “To end matters without further bloodshed, given the state of our fleets,” and Thelea saw Ackbar flinch, “is not a chance we can afford to overlook.”

 

“And we are not committing by listening.”  For such a tiny woman, Leia Organa Solo could make herself heard surprisingly well.  “We are showing that we believe in our principles and uphold them.”  The implication about her enemies’ principles was unspoken, but obvious.

 

There was a slight movement from behind her, and Skywalker murmured, “She means no personal offense.”  

 

“I’m certain she doesn’t,” Thelea lied evenly.  She then shifted her boot just a trace so the heel was resting on Stent’s instep.  She felt him flinch, but she also sensed him suppress whatever comment he’d been about to make.  “This is not the situation any of you expected, I’m sure.”

 

“No, it isn’t.”  Luke had a calm that Thelea wasn’t sure if she envied, or made her want to punch him.  “I’m hoping that it isn’t the situation we thought it was turning into, either.”

 

Somewhere farther back on Luke’s other side, she thought she head the Emperor’s Hand mutter, “Ever the optimist, farmboy.” But she couldn’t be sure.

 

At the rostrum, Mon Mothma turned and gestured to Thelea.  “On behalf of the Inner Council, I invite the New Republic Provisional Council to hear the words of the emissary of the Empire.  I have promised her a hearing, and so call the Council to order.”

 

Thelea clamped down on a sudden, unexpected rush of stage fright.  This might not be the gigantic Imperial Senate, but she still couldn’t recall the last time so many eyes of so many different beings had been fixed on her and her alone.  Never mind that the fate of the galaxy could very well be hanging on what she said next.  

 

_No pressure, Father._

 

Mon Mothma beckoned for her to take the rostrum.  For a moment she froze, wondering if she needed to adjust the vocal amplifier, or if there was some sort of display she needed to activate.  The mental pressure of all that hostility wasn’t helping.  She tried to find that mental balance, so easy when it was a matter of holding her lightsaber or sitting in a cockpit, and tried to remember her Master’s parting words: “The Force will be with you, always.”  Well, right now, she’d have preferred some sort of public-speaking talent, if the Force could help there.  She fought the urge to look over her shoulder-looking to Stent for reassurance that she had at least one friend in the room would be a sign of incredible weakness.

 

In right if not in practice . . . . She might not like the fact, but she was a Lady of the Second High Family. Mother, if you can hear me, help me now.

 

“Councilors, I thank you for your courtesy in hearing me.”  A little polite sarcasm never hurt. “I am Commander Thelea.  I come before you on behalf of Grand Admiral Thrawn, Supreme Commander of the Empire.  Our forces now control Yag’Dhul and the junction of the main trade routes to the Inner Rim and the Core.  Your fleets have been destroyed and the remaining ships are even as we speak being refitted for service to the Empire.  Your crews, from those fleets and from ships and fighters taken across Imperial space, fought valiantly.  Those taken or surrendered are in our custody and we have offered them amnesty, if they will fight for our cause.  I come here to place the same offer before you.”

 

There was an instant of silence as they processed her words.  Then, someone gave a single, barking laugh.  She wasn’t sure who it was, but the broken silence was filled with angry shouts and stunned muttering, whistles, growls, and roars, depending on each species’ method of expression.  Finally one voice, the same angry Twi’lek, cut across the others:

 

“You want us to bow down and serve a new Emperor in place of the old one?”

 

“We want you to join us,” Thelea said.  “I could show you all the holos of the battle, present lists of those taken, and I will make that information available, but I was not sent to intimidate you and demand your submission at the point of a blaster.  The Grand Admiral requires that order and discipline return to the galaxy.  He does not want unnecessary bloodshed.  There are far greater threats than this petty squabbling and the galaxy cannot wait for your so-called Republic to gather itself to order.  We can, if we wish, force an ending.  And then we will waste time and resources and lives which are desperately needed elsewhere.”  

 

“Conquering territory for Thrawn?”  She wasn’t sure whose voice that was, but she gritted her teeth and tried to focus.

 

“You have fought well.  Your principles, in theory, are not unsound, but you have not created a safe and stable reality from them.  We cannot afford time for your growing pains.”  She deliberately looked to Stent now and nodded, holding out her hand for the small holodisc that she knew he was carrying.  If he resented being treated like the help, he didn’t give any indication, only removing the disc from an inner pocket and handing it over.  She could see the projection system input in the podium and had already noted the holoprojectors in the center floor, and prayed it worked as it appeared to or her first visual aid was going to be a bust.  “I believe that part of your problem,” she said, raising her voice just a bit to carry over the angry and rebellious muttering in the room, “is that you are laboring under a misapprehension.  You believe you are fighting the last vestiges of the Empire of Palpatine.

 

Allow me to correct your error.”

 

She pressed what she hoped was the activation key and was relieved when a galactic map swirled to existence in the center of the floor.  A glowing yellow delineated the slowly-constricting area of the New Republic, while the Imperial Remnant and its recently-reacquired worlds were picked out in red.  “As you see, your territory is shrinking, with more worlds returning to the control of the Empire.  This is the region you refer to as the Imperial Remnant.”  She tapped another key, and an area appeared bordered in green, overlaying the Remnant and encompassing much of what the humans called Wild Space and the Unknown Regions, save for what was still unaligned territory and an area marked out in black, one whose borders still didn’t look quite like she thought she remembered they should.  “And this,” she said, now speaking over quieter murmurs of confusion, “is the Empire of the Hand.  Over two hundred systems in an alliance the Grand Admiral has been forging for nearly ten years among the races of what you call the Unknown Regions.  They have stood together against warlords, pirates, and invaders, but they cannot stand alone against every threat.  For their sake as well as the sake of the inner galaxy, we cannot permit the chaos of mob rule that has taken hold here.  Time is running out.  The territory that was the old Empire must unite with the new before we confront the enemies that threaten us all.  When Palpatine ruled, the Grand Admiral could trust that the Core would stand united but you cannot even unite when faced with a familiar threat.  Now he makes this offer: surrender.  Permit the reformation of the galactic government without resistence and there need be no further mutual destruction.  Join us.  It is the only hope for the galaxy.”

 

Thelea paused, and for a moment so did everyone else.  Finally, Mon Mothma said, “You speak of threats.  What are they?  What threat could be so great we should abandon the principles we fought and died for?”

 

“They are legion,” Thelea said, buying herself time with vagueness as she searched through the data disc. Finding what she wanted, she called up the holo, for the first time able to set aside which Destroyer was in the image with the glittering black ship.  “But these are the ones who threaten us now.  They first appeared over thirty years ago, striking from the far fringes of the galaxy at races within the Unknown Regions.”  She let the holo run, showing the crushing strikes against the Defiance’s command tower.  “They resurfaced not long before the battle of Endor, and their attacks have grown in frequency and ferocity.  At one point, they blockaded an Imperial colony in the Outer Rim,” and she pinpointed Telamara on the map, feeling the involuntary unease from many of the Council.  “Most recently, they struck here,” and the new dot was on the edges of the black-bounded area, “a small world, whose name would mean nothing to you.  But this is the result.”

 

She called up the ground images.  She’d been there herself, with Master Aleishia, but it still made her shudder.  The planet had once been a resource world for the Ascendancy, mostly for less-than-vital  supplies like hardwoods, which was probably why they had been willing to retreat rather than defend the small population, mostly colonist workers.  That, or they’d intended to leave defense of the planet to the Empire of the Hand.  Either way, her father had been uncharacteristically grim and silent when he reviewed the reports, and Niriz had taught her a few words in human dialects she hadn’t known before but suspected were not appropriate for mixed company.  And despite the frosty air between them at the time (and at some point she was going to have a talk with her father about the probable cause of that) she’d seen Stent after he and Colonel Fel had returned from their squadron’s run on the last entrenched ground units the enemy had left behind.  Other races might find it hard to tell when Chiss were truly angry, but she’d been grateful she hadn’t had to face him in the cockpit that day. It had been hard enough to sit together, both too numb even to compare what they’d seen.   Following the traditional practice of leaving no enemy alive and not permitting retreat  was something Thrawn did not encourage, but she suspected Stent and the other pilots had ignored that order and she had only wished there’d been some left for her and her lightsaber, too.

 

“This world had a temperate climate, predominantly managed forests.  There were small work colonies in both hemispheres when the dark ships struck.  As far as we know, they broadcast no surrender demands.  They preceded their landing with an orbital bombardment, and landed only enough small craft to take prisoners and establish a temporary outpost.”  The sudden quiet in the chamber, she knew, wasn’t from her words.  They were looking at the holos, the blackened, stripped remains of the trees jabbing at the sky, the barren ground covered with gray and more flakes drifting through the air.  “This was taken during the hemisphere’s summer,” she added, swallowing the anger and revulsion as the image showed a blasted-out shell that had clearly been a barracks building.  “That isn’t snow.  It’s ash.”  She heard the hissed intakes of breath, the spontaneous exclamations, and knew some of the councilors had seen the shadowed shapes, skeletal and twisted, in the ruins as the image showed a unit of stormtroopers moving across what had one been a settlement’s central plaza. Thelea had envied them the filters on their helmets, blocking out the acrid odor of burnt wood and scorched  rock.  “We estimate there were fifty thousand colonist workers living on the planet.  We found remains to account for approximately half that, and no traces of the rest.  We can assume they were either taken prisoner, or vaporized.” 

 

She let them look a moment longer, before switching back to the galactic map and bringing up pinpoints of light.  “The white dots are worlds attacked in hit and fade operations.  The red are those which, like this planet, were destroyed.  There are only four now, but we have no doubt the number will increase.”  She winced inwardly at the number of white specks on or within the border of Chiss space.  “When they do, the Empire of the Hand will hold them off.  But without a unified galactic core at our backs, we cannot hope to hold them forever.  And they are only the first.  What you call the Unknown Regions, and beyond, harbor threats even more dangerous than these.  Can you prepare to withstand them when you can’t even repel an attack by our Navy?”

 

“How do we know that the Grand Admiral won’t use this an excuse to declare himself Emperor?”  That was Organa Solo.  “He’s given us no reason to trust him.”

 

“And it sounds like that’s what he’s been planning all along.”  Mara Jade might not have the right to speak up in the Council, but from the nodding and murmurs of assent, they were willing to overlook that.  “I can say for certain, he wasn’t sent to the Unknown Regions to set up his own personal kingdom.”

 

And you’re out here, building some personal fiefdom . . . no, she couldn’t blame the Emperor’s Hand for saying what she’d thought.  “The Grand Admiral has no interest in reigning as a despot or in power for its own sake.  He’s seen in two worlds now what political chaos causes.  The Empire of the Hand is meant to be a buffer between the core and the Unknown, but the assumption has always been a unified Core capable of swift response.  Given the events of the last few years, how can we believe you are capable of that? This would not be the first time disorder in the center of the galaxy has had consequences in places those here have forgotten. How can we gamble so many lives on your grand hope that this time, your ideals will work?  And,” mentally she crossed her fingers that this would be convincing, “as those who were in the hangar for our arrival might have heard, as far as reasons to trust him, consider this: if he wished merely to conquer you, why not simply do so?  Why instead wait, offer peace, and do so by sending the one hostage who guarantees he will not simply bombard the world if you say no?  If he were plotting some tyranny you’ll fight to the death, would he send his own daughter to speak for him?”

 

Now there were loud rumblings from those who hadn’t been in the hangar and hadn’t had a chance to whisper with those who were.  More unnerving was the sudden, hard stare from Organa Solo and she controlled a wince only barely.  She didn’t need to be a Jedi in training to read those thoughts: _how could a man with children he cared about use kidnapping against someone else’s?_

 

 _Perhaps because he knows exactly how distracting a threat to one’s offspring can be,_ she answered to herself.  It certainly hadn’t been out of any desire to give the clone C’baoth real apprentices.  Then she started, because the thought was answered with what almost felt like amusement from somewhere behind her.  She was really going to have to be more cautious with a proper Jedi so close by.  

 

“So he sends the heir to the throne,” the Twi’lek, who seemed to be taking the position as leader of the opposition.  “Sounds as if we have the perfect hostage.”

 

“Heir to the throne,” she sniffed, even as she subtly waved Stent back.  “My father has no need of a throne.  He needs a strong government that speaks with a single voice he can trust at his back.  He has sent me to present that message to you, and if you are willing, to bring your representatives to meet with him.  The sooner you can reach a decision on this, the better.”

 

There was just the slightest shift in the mood of the room, she could feel it even without resorting to the Force.  But again the Bothan spoke.  “Fine words, Commander, and I am sure many of us here would like to believe them.  But you must understand our skepticism.  An entire second empire, hidden from Palpatine?  More, one where aliens and Imperials cooperate?  Rather than one where aliens are servants where fortunate, and slaves where not?”

 

He couldn’t have given her a better set-up if she’d asked for one.  “Really, Councilor Fey’lya,” and Thelea tried not to sound smug.  “Look at me.  Look at Commander Kres’ten’tarthi.  Consider what you know of my father.  Do you really think that our Empire has a problem with aliens?  Some are more stubborn than others, I will admit.  Humans are at times hard for us to understand, but we make allowances.”  There was a ripple, a quiet one but real nonetheless, of laughter.  Thelea felt the first flush of real confidence.  “And if you think only our own kind are welcome, well . . . .”  She looked over at her bodyguards.  “Troopers: remove your helmets.”  She could feel the reluctance.  “It will only be for a moment.  And it is an order.”

 

There was another, slightly shorter pause, but all four reached up and pulled the concealing helmets free.  The murmur her order had prompted suddenly rose to a low roar.  TK-11892 was not particularly surprising-he was human, she had known that.  TK-04885 and TK-04889, however, prompted a minor outburst, as clones seemed to do.  But it was, as she’d expected, TK-09611 whose face produced the greatest reaction–intakes of breath, a silence, confusion, and loud conversation while Mon Mothma’s soft voice calling for order was drowned out.

 

Thelea couldn’t blame them.  The scale-like skin effect and slit-pupil eyes like Private Langhva’s did take some getting used to.  “I apologize for any shock,” she said, hearing an echo of her father’s voice in her faux-amiable tone.  “I do know none of you have seen a Stromma before.”


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this one got a bit long. We'll save Thrawn's bete noir for next time, with the added bonus that it's now going to be more than a bit epic. As you'll see, hopefully this one ends on enough of an emotional punch to make up for it. Thelea's having a very rough day...

  


 

Night on Coruscant was not something Thelea had ever anticipated she'd experience again. The fact she was in quarters which permitted her a view of the skyline and not in a detention cell was more than she could have expected, considering the nexu she'd flung amongst the womp-rats of the Provisional Council (and wasn't _that_ an appropriate mental image for the squabbling politicians.) The Council had questioned Private Langhva, much to his consternation, and his adamant insistence that the Grand Admiral had liberated his people and had never for a moment forced their submission to his empire was almost as disruptive as his descriptions of the many races that existed in what these Republic people called "Unknown Regions." Thelea had confirmed what he'd said, not that they believed her entirely, until it had become clear their presence was hindering open debate. Or infuriated arguing.

The suite of rooms they'd been offered were in a secluded wing of the old palace, and Thelea had noted with some amusement they lacked a balcony or even the ability to open the windows. Between that and the presence of Rebel guards in the corridor (well away from the two troopers stationed at the door, but close enough) it was clear that while they might not officially be prisoners, they weren't precisely honored guests.

She studied the glittering spires of the immense buildings and the lanes of ships and repulsorcraft sailing in their grids that seemed a bit lighter than she remembered from her days as a cadet, but not as much so as she'd have thought. Even another war, another galactic upheaval, couldn't drastically diminish the sheer busyness of the capital world's occupants. She wondered if any of the holonews flat displays were even now reporting on the visitors from the Empire who'd appeared before the Council with an offer of truce. She hoped not, though being the focus of so much attention was not quite as bad as she'd anticipated. Still, there was a difference between being the subject of understandable hostility and scrutiny, and raw public curiosity. The latter sounded like it would be her academy days writ large.

The sky was deepening to indigo, and more lights were coming on. _I'd forgotten, or I never had time to notice before, but in many ways, it really is beautiful here._

There was an uneasy sense behind her, and a sharp exhalation. "I do wish you'd come away from the windows."

She turned. Stent was on one of the comfortable yet tasteful couches that probably dated from the suite's days as part of the Imperial court's lodgings, though he managed to look as if he wasn't relaxed one bit. He was watching her with an expression a human probably would have found as neutral as glowing red eyes could be, but she could see the tension lines. "The windows have a security field," she said, forcibly reminding herself to keep her tone soft. He meant well, and her safety was his responsibility–more, she suspected, than just the role of 'pilot' suggested. "No one can see in, not cams, and not snipers. And if the Council wanted us killed, they wouldn't need to come from outside."

"It isn't that," he said, though she saw the slightest release of the tension. "I don't know how you can stand being up so high."

"You're a pilot," and she barely caught herself from laughing. "You're not afraid of heights."

"Not with engines and repulsors and a cockpit," he countered. "But here? These buildings are so high I could almost believe the ground doesn't exist. It's not natural."

Thelea thought back to her own first impressions of offworld, and to the comforting security of rock and ice of home. Not that she or Stent had seen Csilla in years, or were likely to again any time soon, but generations of instinct were hard to override. "It's not so bad once you get used to it. The lights can even be pretty at night."

"They'd better be, since I doubt you can ever see the stars here," he said. "I read the information in the databanks on this world, and I know it's very ancient and important. I just can't imagine wanting to live here."

"Father and I have both managed." She wondered absently where Thrawn had lived while on Coruscant. She hadn't asked, and during her preparation it hadn't come up. If anything she had the distinct sense he didn't wish to talk about it. "I'm more worried about our hosts. I know this isn't easy for them, but how can they keep arguing? Do they want the fleet to have to come?"

"Some of them, yes," Stent said bluntly. "It would suit their view of the galaxy. And it might be best if the Syndic did just that."

Thelea narrowed her eyes, but managed to restrain the kind of glare a human would have needed to sense her disapproval. "We're not going to kill millions to make a point, Stent."

"I'm not saying we need to bombard the planet," he retorted. "Just show them we could."

"They'll come around," she said, turning back to the window. "They have to." She resisted the urge to reach out with the Force for the _Chimaera_. Her father might not notice if she went poking, but Aleishia would, and the last thing she wanted was to seem discouraged already. "At least Commander Skywalker seems forgiving. Maybe they'll give some weight to the word of their Jedi."

"That makes me nervous, too." Stent's tone hadn't significantly altered, but she heard just the faintest caution, as if he were worried about the thickness of the ice beneath his boots. "I don't entirely understand this 'son of Vader' business–"

"Count yourself lucky," Thelea interrupted, shuddering at just the memory. "Or ask Father about Lord Vader sometime."

"But these Jedi . . . I know that you have certain abilities, and your Master Aleishia helps you to refine them," and she could hear how carefully he was speaking, burying any alarm. "The Jedi sound something like a cult."

"I understand your feelings." The Jedi Order itself had been, if her Master's stories were taken at face value, very much a militant monastic life. But there was no arguing that the Force itself existed, and some beings were able to use it. She did, Aleishia did, and Luke Skywalker was almost a nexus of the mysterious power. "But if it is, then right now it's a cult with two members, Skywalker and his sister, plus a schismatic, and me. Mother was a Force-user, but she's . . . well. Anyway, at least my being here puts us on something of an even footing. I can sense if he's planning anything, unless he's even stronger than I think."

"And stop him." It wasn't a question.

Thelea turned around again, and couldn't help the smile. "I could try to. But to be honest, I hope it doesn't come to that, and not just because that would mean we're back to where we were as far as the war goes."

"I've seen you practice with that thing," and he nodded at her lightsaber. He shifted just a little, the invitation obvious, and in spite of herself she took him up on it. He didn't move toward her, but he didn't remove his arm from the back of the couch, either. She took that as a typically-Chiss understated peace offering. "Do you really think you'd be in any danger?"

She restrained a laugh, but only just. "Even if I couldn't sense how powerful he is, we're back to your never having met Lord Vader. If Commander Skywalker could defeat _him,_ I don't want to find out how much faster he could defeat me." The implications of what they'd always assumed happened on the Death Star, in light of the recent revelations, suddenly sank in. "If he did defeat him. I mean, that was his father, after all." Another thought occurred to her. "Ye gods. And if Organa Solo is Skywalker's sister, then her own father stood by and watched her homeworld be destroyed."

"Must be nice to know your family doesn't have a monopoly on unusual parent-child relations."

It took a minute for Thelea to notice. She stared at Stent, who met her gaze with what was, even for a Chiss, uncanny neutrality. Finally, she said, "Did you just make a joke?"

One shoulder twitched in what might have been a shrug. "If my lady wishes."

"If not?"

"Then it was merely an observation." But there was, almost too quickly to see, a quirk of his lip.

Thelea knew she shouldn't laugh, but it was a very near miss. "I shouldn't think that's funny, but really, when you're right, you're right." Stent didn't reply, but she thought his smile seemed just a little more sincere.

The sense in the Force from outside their suite preceded the response of the troopers outside the door by only moments, but it was enough that Thelea was on her feet when the trooper in the room with them cocked his head, then said, "Ma'am, there are three visitors outside who say they wish to speak with you."

Thelea 'listened' at the door, not that it took much concentration to sense Skywalker's proximity. The Jedi's sense still glowed like a small fusion reactor, and near him she sensed the more shadowy aura of the Emperor's Hand. And with them–

She suppressed a wince at the cold, resigned hostility. Whatever had brought Leia Organa Solo here to speak with them hadn't improved her feelings. Still, she was here. That was progress, wasn't it? "Of course, trooper. Stent, have you figured out the kitchen water systems? We should probably offer them chai." Her father had told her to bring a set of cups and a tin of the beverage powder for precisely this sort of occasion.

Stent didn't bother containing a grimace, though he rose to obey. "It won't taste right with the water here."

"They won't know the difference," Thelea chided, refraining from adding that it had been so long since she'd tasted fresh water straight from the glacial melt she barely remembered, either. "But it's polite. Trooper, let the guards know they may enter." Sometimes the stormtroopers' internal helmet comlinks came in very handy.

She took a breath, steadying herself in the Force. There was nothing to be afraid of. Even if they were intent on attack, and nothing in Skywalker's sense in the Force suggested that was the case, she had the troopers, Stent, and the Force. She was hardly defenseless.

Of course, a physical fight wasn't really her biggest fear, was it?

Skywalker looked much the same–black clothes, the lightsaber at his belt, that open, farmboy face with its apparently sincere smile. Jade had the same contained, not-quite-suspicious smile, and Leia Organa Solo was every inch the cold, aristocratic princess of a dead world Imperial rumor portrayed her as. There seemed to be a special . . . not precisely anger, but confusion and frustration . . . aimed at _her_ that almost made Thelea want to look away. And tooling along behind them, invisible like all droids to her Force senses, was a blue-domed astromech, presumably Skywalker's famous unit. It beeped something, the optical input blinking red and blue, and she had to push down an absurd urge to return what appeared to be a greeting.

"Councilor Organa Solo, Commander Skywalker," and she hesitated, realizing that while 'Emperor's Hand' was probably no longer appropriate she had no idea how she was supposed to address Mara Jade.

"Mara," the other supplied, and something in the green eyes suggested she was enjoying the discomfiture more than a bit. "Smuggling's a first-name business, and anyway, I _do_ know your father."

Thelea winced internally, but kept her face impassive. "Mara, then. This is a surprise. Won't you all have a seat? I've asked my–assistant–to prepare some refreshments." She thought she heard a snort, quickly smothered, from Stent's direction, but ignored it.

Luke smiled and once again she sensed nothing but a sincere hope they weren't going to be enemies. "Thank you. And I'm Luke, by the way, the Commander's not necessary. I resigned my commission not long after Endor."

It sounded so familiar Thelea couldn't entirely contain a chuckle. "Strangely enough, so did I. Please, sit." She returned to the couch, watching as Mara and Organa Solo hung back just a bit, clearly uncomfortable although for differing reasons, and Luke moved comfortably to one of the chairs, as if he sat down for a chat with representatives of the enemy he'd been fighting for a decade every day. She wondered how much effort it was taking to maintain that . . . she couldn't even call it a facade because she could _sense_ his sincerity, or at least he was projecting a sense of it for her to notice–

Thelea shook herself. That way lay paranoia, and paranoia was _not_ productive. _"_ I hope this visit means the Council is a bit closer to reaching a decision?" she said, hoping Stent hurried with the chai.

"Perhaps." Organa Solo studied her for a long, piercing minute. "The Council is still deeply divided and neither side is ready call a vote."

"That at least suggests there are two sides, which is an improvement on when we left," Thelea said. "May I ask what the point of contention is now?"

"One group believes we should accept your offer, at least as far continuing negotiations with the Grand Admiral," she replied. "The other believes we should take all of you hostage, regroup what's left of our fleet, and issue a strong counter-proposal of our own."

"I see." Thelea tilted her chin, considering. "I don't suppose I should ask which side you're on at the moment."

Even if Organa Solo had been inclined to answer, her brother rushed to fill the pause. "I thought it might be a good idea to come and talk to you quietly, in a less contentious setting," Luke said. "My sister has some reasonable concerns, and I hoped you could address them privately. Mara said–" He stopped himself, glancing awkwardly at the red-haired woman, and Thelea raised an eyebrow.

The former Emperor's hand laughed, not too unkindly. "Don't get bashful now, farmboy. I only said Thrawn wouldn't have sent anyone into this meeting without his prepared answers and while I'm pretty sure I know some of it's bantha droppings, we might as well hear his explanation now that he wants to be friends."

"The Grand Admiral–your father," Organa Solo said, "tried to kidnap my children and hand them over to a mad dark Jedi. Even if I thought we could trust _any_ Imperial, how am I supposed to believe the man who hunted me and my family, who tried to take my children away from me before they were even born, now wants to make peace?"

Thelea sighed, and was relieved when Stent bought her a moment by bringing over the chai pot and cups. "Well, Councilor," she said, as he placed the tray on the low table between them, "first, I won't pretend that Father is exactly a model parent. But he does understand just how distracting a threat to children can be. And he isn't above using distraction as a weapon, against enemies or even inconvenient allies. _You_ were distracted by being hunted. C'baoth was too preoccupied with the notion of acquiring disciples to do more than was needed." Stent had provided only four cups, and he stepped back to stand behind the couch, over her right shoulder, where he could observe her guests and remain well out of their reach. She resisted the urge to give him a dirty look, and instead studied the chai set, hoping she didn't look too lost. Did she distribute the cups first, then pour, or was it pour and pass to each person at once? Who qualified as the guest of honor here? _I really should have had some lessons in this._

Deciding to err on the side of the guest least likely to fling the hot liquid back in her face, she placed the first cup before Luke. "Will you take chai?"

She _felt_ the brush of a probe in the Force, and made herself relax. He was only assessing her intent again, cautiously, sensibly, looking for duplicity. The smile looked real enough. "Thank you," he said, "though I'm not quite sure what I'm getting."

"It's a blend of herbs from our world," Thelea said, picking up the metal pot and hoping to all the ancestors she managed not to spill. "No formal business is truly conducted properly unless it's discussed over chai. Normally there'd be some kind of food, too, I apologize for that, but I was a bit uncertain about bringing even the chai. I know it's not the custom here. And rather like caf, it's an acquired taste."

"No need to apologize," Luke said as she poured. "Since we actually haven't found any information about the Gr–your father's people, it's nice to learn something about them. We don't even know what to call your race."

Thelea kept her smile as polite as possible, and placed the second cup before Councilor Organa Solo. "Will you take chai, Councilor?"

For a moment, she thought the other was going to refuse, but then Leia nodded regally. Suddenly Thelea had the abrupt sense of being very much judged. The pot suddenly felt much heavier, and her hand trembled, a drop of the dark liquid splashing over the rim onto the table. It took all her self-control to keep from wincing at the sudden, rather self-satisfied twist to her 'guest's' lips. If the circumstances were reversed, Thelea supposed she'd take what victories she could get, too.

She almost didn't notice the sensation, a touch in the Force like a reassuring smile and a steadying of the pot in her hands, almost at the same instant as Organa Solo gave a slight wince. She looked as far over as she dared, and saw Luke very suddenly smother a smile. Thelea wasn't sure to be offended or pleased, but it seemed she definitely had at least one ally.

Mara didn't do more than smirk a bit, clearly still more interested in gauging Thelea's reactions than in any kind of personal bitterness. Of course, she'd be used to the kind of backbiting politics the Imperial Court had excelled at. And apparently she wasn't going to engage in it herself. Instead, Mara simply picked up the cup and took a tentative sniff. Out of the corner of her eye, Thelea saw Stent cringe just a bit. "Doesn't smell poisoned," was all the Emperor's Hand said, though, and she took a sip. "So far, still alive."

Thelea poured her own cup, trying to ignore the implied insult-she hadn't yet tasted any of the food, simple as it was, that had been left in the suite. "If it's poisoned, the toxin was in the palace water," she said. "With all the trouble we have to go to for real chai powder, no one's worth contaminating it."

Luke raised his own cup, giving it a less-suspicious sniff before tasting it. "It's . . . different," and Thelea wasn't sure from the slightly crooked smile if he meant that in a positive or negative sense. "I've never tasted spices quite like these."

Thelea glanced at her third guest, but Organa Solo had made no move to reach for her own cup. Thelea shrugged internally and took a sip of hers. The taste was spicy, sharp and just this side of too strong. She savored the familiar flavor a moment before looking to Stent. "This is perfect, Stent, thank you." He only nodded, a flicker of disapproval (probably at her tasting it, never mind acknowledging him, before all of the guests. Well, next time her father could give her a crash course on chai etiquette before turning her into a diplomat.) "Is the chai to your taste?" She did at least remember the ritual question, even if she was at something of a loss how to fix matters if the answer turned out to be no.

Either finally deciding she'd been aloof enough or at some Jedi prodding from her brother, Organa Solo picked up her cup and took a very perfunctory sip. "Thank you," she said, directing it more towards Stent than Thelea. "I'm still waiting for how distraction is a justification for kidnaping. What if the Grand Admiral's commandos had succeeded?"

Thelea sighed and put her cup down. So much for diplomacy . . . but then, Master Aleishia had predicted this would be something of a sticking point, and Thelea had (very diplomatically) refrained from asking Father exactly what Mother might have thought of this particular scheme. She suspected Lisetha wouldn't have shared her husband's lack of sentiment about children of other races. "Then C'baoth would have been distracted enough removing him once he had outlived his usefulness, which was sooner than he realized, would have been that much easier. As I believe some of you–" she glanced at Skywalker–"met him, you probably realized the clone madness was becoming unsupportable. He was on Wayland again because it gave him a mistaken sense of control. If he _had_ acquired infant apprentices, the effort required to find suitable care for them would have been an additional focus. Once he was destroyed, then the children would be raised to an age suitable for training and likely my Master would take responsibility." She smiled faintly. "By the time they were old enough to properly train I suppose I'd be prepared to help. Not that I feel like anything but an apprentice myself."

"Who _is_ your Master?" Luke was abruptly leaning forward, the blue eyes bright and intense.

"Yes, and if Thrawn has a Jedi Master stashed away, what did he need C'baoth for?" Mara's straightforward delivery was almost refreshing. It also seemed to act as a damper on Luke's enthusiasm.

Thelea at least knew how to answer this. "Master Aleishia left the Jedi Order before the Clone Wars. There was, I gather, a problem–she and _her_ master had developed, well, an attachment of a personal nature. Rather than give that up, they chose to abandon the Jedi instead. They were exploring our region of space when they were . . . attacked." Aleishia had never told he the precise details of the assault on Khnum's moon that lead to Lisetha finding her, half-dead and alone, and some instinct certainly not inherited from her father had prevented Thelea from ever pressing for details. "Her master died, along with their child. My mother found Master Aleishia and concealed her among our people. In return, Master Aleishia helped her learn to use her own sensitivity to the Force. Father has never entirely approved. Unlike the late unlamented C'baoth, she does not answer to my Father and she does not always agree with his choice of tactics. C'baoth was an unstable clone of an unstable man. He could be manipulated. She can't."

"And you wouldn't do what he wanted, either?" She wasn't sure if Organa Solo was skeptical or just sarcastic.

"I _can't_ do what he required. I can lift objects, stop blaster bolts, move a boulder or balance a needle on its end, but bending minds?" She shook her head. "Father knew the real C'baoth. Met him when the Jedi sent their expedition through our space. He knew he could control his clone. He can't control my master. And I know what you're thinking," all of them, really, but she directed it mostly to Organa Solo. "I'm _not_ what you call a Dark Jedi, let alone a Sith." She grimaced at the word; it meant something very unpleasant in the lowest dialects at home. Until recently, she'd assumed that was a coincidence. "Neither is my Master. All I want, all Father wants, is a safe, secure galaxy that responds to any threat swiftly and surely. Father saw the dying side of the Old Republic, Master Aleishia grew up in it, they both see your New Republic going the same way, only now time has run out to see if you can grow out of it."

"So an Empire is better?" Organa Solo leaned forward, an intensity in her eyes so bright it was almost a glow. "Fear and oppression? Anyone who dissents, rounded up? Whole worlds destroyed? And don't tell me that the Grand Admiral had nothing to do with Alderaan. He stood with the people who destroyed my world. And he kept the Noghri in slavery. Even if it wasn't his idea, he never freed them. When they rebelled, he bombarded what was left of their world."

Thelea wished she hadn't come armed with so many good points. "And almost all of that he would do again if it meant the galaxy was stronger and prepared to meet what's coming and our people were protected." Unconsciously she flexed the fingers of her artificial hand, feeling the nails dig in through the glove. "Ordering Honoghr bombarded was, he admits, a somewhat emotional overreaction."

"To slaves finally turning on their master?" Organa Solo's expression made it clear whose side she thought was morally in the right.

That, at least, Thelea was prepared for. "For the assassin almost killing his only child instead. I told you, Father understands just how distracting a threat to a person's children can be."

For the first time, she thought she might have scored a point. Organa Solo sat back, and her expression was suddenly closed and considering. Mara, meanwhile, had been listening with a much sharper, calculating expression. "I find that hard to believe, considering the Thrawn I know."

"You'd be surprised," Thelea said dryly. "By our people's standards, Father's downright sentimental. But as for why he didn't make me common knowledge, besides the appearance of nepotism, how long would a blood relative have lasted with all the people gunning for him?"

Mara shrugged, sipping her chai without the decorous ceremony that was considered appropriate and Thelea could practically _hear_ Stent wince. "True. But even considering that, it's still hard to imagine Thrawn being anybody's father. Let alone doing what accomplishing that usually entails. If he ever looked twice at any sort of female it was probably because she was in a painting."

It took all of Thelea's self-control not to do more than smile, self-control and the flare of rampant indignation from over her shoulder keeping a snort of laughter from sneaking out. Shifting, she said in Cheunh, "I told you, they have trouble with our names. You don't want to hear them try to mangle 'Mitth'raw'nuruodo.'"

"It isn't proper or respectful," Stent retorted.

"Mind your manners or I'll tell them _your_ full name and let you suffer," she said, only half-teasing. She looked back to her guests. "Excuse me. And believe me, you aren't the first to have found the notion of my father's marriage surprising. But if you'll forgive my bluntness, I think that's less surprising than what I learned about Lord Vader today."

"He wasn't always Vader," Luke said. There was something almost _wistful_ about his voice. "Before, and at the end, he was a Jedi named Anakin Skywalker."

"He was terrifying," Thelea said. "Serving on the _Executor_ might have been an honor, but I'm not sure it was worth the one time I attracted Lord Vader's attention. Though all things considered, he let me live. I shouldn't complain. Either he had plans to use me to manipulate Father, or he just had plans. But it meant I lived long enough to survive Endor." _Unlike so many others._ "Given your parentage, I find the astonishment over mine a bit much."

"It's not only that Thrawn has a daughter," Organa Solo said. Thelea noticed she took another sip of the chai. "It's what it means that he chose to send her to speak for him. And who he sent with you."

"Nepotism isn't Thrawn's style," Mara said bluntly. "Which suggests he either thinks you're good enough to negotiate for him, or he was dangling the perfect hostage in front of the Council to let them show their good intentions."

"Why can't it be both?" Thelea decided to abandon all pretense of being a decorous host and take a proper drink. Besides, while it wasn't Navy caf, the chai was at least a little bracing. "Especially the second half. Father deliberately sent me, the head of his household Phalanx," and she gestured to Stent, "and stormtroopers recruited from systems in the Unknown Regions to see how you would react. Except unlike some of your council who'd love to see us prove we're just trying to lure you out so we can use the Death Star we're hiding behind our backs–oh, don't be ridiculous," she said, seeing the looks on their faces, "if we had even a Super Star Destroyer we wouldn't _need_ to discuss anything. Anyway, while some of your people are hoping we justify their opinion of us as monsters, Father is hoping you'll prove him right and the rest of us wrong and _not_ view this as an excellent opportunity for aggressive negotiations."

"Were the situations reversed, and we sent a delegation of our highest-ranking officials and asked to speak with the Grand Admiral, would he even agree to hear us?" Organa Solo asked. "Or would we be in detention cells?"

"If there's one thing my Father is always prepared to do, it's listen to new information," Thelea said. "Now, if you opened by calling him a tyrant and insulting him, he might be a bit less polite than I or Private Langhva was about it when some of your colleagues essentially accused us of betraying people they never knew existed until today because we serve the Empire."

"Given what the people those councilors represent suffered under Imperial rule, what else would they think of you?" Organa Solo retorted. "Your people, and the Sto . . . Stom-"

"Stromma," Thelea supplied, keeping her expression excruciatingly neutral.

"Thank you," and it sounded superficially polite, "The Stromma, your own race, these others you say are part of Thrawn's personal empire, they're as entitled to freedom as any species in the Republic. Yet you don't come to negotiate their escape. You came to ask us to surrender along with them. After the Grand Admiral tried to beat us into submission. We don't surrender to tyranny and we won't bow to another Emperor."

Thelea could feel Stent shifting on his feet, his temper rising, and she saw the slightly alarmed expression on Luke's face as he clearly sensed it too. "Stent–"

"They're being insulting for the sake of it, and they know _nothing_ about the Syndic or our people." At least he'd deigned to speak Basic. "And they know nothing about the threats in our region of space, or what's coming. It would curdle their blood to hear half of them."

"Then _tell_ us," Mara snapped. "I know Thrawn loves a dramatic presentation but I didn't know it was a species trait."

"You're asking us to surrender everything we fought for, or you'll take it by force," Organa Solo said, even in a temper still managing to put her cup down delicately. Thelea wondered if there was special princess training or some people were just born with the knack. "You show us vague footage of ships attacking Imperial vessels, talk about warlords who were threats but allegedly are dead anyway, show us a map without names for half the systems, and talk about even more frightening threats. If you want us to even _think_ about cooperating, tell us the straightforward truth."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Thelea wondered if her father had planned for _this_ , too. He might love a dramatic reveal, but she loved cutting his build-ups short. Had he anticipated that being the right strategy with Organa Solo all along? "You want blunt? Fine. Is there a holoprojector in here? I need that map I showed you."

"Actually, Artoo can help there." Skywalker gestured to the droid, which Thelea had forgotten about, and the unit rolled forward, beeping something in binary. The optical sensor/projector rotated and suddenly the galactic map, with the Republic, the Remnant and the Empire of the Hand marked out just as they had been in the Council chamber.

"Can it focus on the Unknown Regions?" Thelea asked, and there was a sound like an electronic indignant squawk.

Luke chuckled. "He can, and you can just ask Artoo directly."

"Ah. I see." Clearly the Rebels took a much more expansive view of droids than the Imperials did. Thelea still wasn't sure, even after all these years, she was quite ready to accept a bucket of circuits and bolts as a person, exactly, and she could sense Stent's even-greater unease. "Sorry. Artoo, could you please enlarge the area referred to as the Unknown Regions?"

Somehow managing to make an electronic squeal sound mildly sulky, the astromech obliged, enhancing the Unknown Regions until the Remnant and the Republic faded to insignificance. Thelea pointed to the glowing speck that marked Nirauan. "That is our base of operations. I won't say 'capital', it's not, really, there's just the Hand and some native sentients who mostly try to avoid us. I already showed you the boundaries of the Empire here. This," and she pointed farther out, "is the region a race called the Vagaari come from. Slavers, mostly," and she managed to keep her reaction to a minor sneer, "but they've been pushed back and so far, they've learned their lesson. That's also the general direction a people called Ssi-ruuk came from-I believe you're familiar?"

"We assisted the Bakurans when they invaded the system," Luke confirmed. "It was right after Endor."

"And we convinced the Bakurans to abandon the Empire," his sister added, "at least until fear of the Grand Admiral's campaign drove them back."

"Fear, or just recognition of the inevitable?" Thelea retorted. "In any case, the Ssi-ruuk originated deep in the Unknown Regions. After the Bakura incident, they retreated there. I was involved in my training with my Master at the time, but I believe it was their retreat from Bakura that brought them into the Empire of the Hand's territory." She looked at Stent.

He appeared to have recovered from his previous snit. "They did. The Syndic took _Admonitor_ and her support ships to deal with them." Only a fellow Chiss could possibly have seen the flicker of emotion at the mention of the Destroyer, or the brief lowering of her own gaze.

"Are we supposed to be so afraid of their return?" Organa Solo asked, not, from the sound of it, sincerely.

"Oh, hardly," Thelea said. "They're just an example. But they aren't the problem and certainly won't be back. As Stent said, Father dealt with them. The Vagaari would tell you if they ever crawled back out of whatever filthy hole they've slunk down, Father has very little patience with slavers. Which is why there is no legal slavery in the Empire of the Hand. And there will _not_ be in any new Alliance formed here, that needs to be made clear. Hutts and criminals," and she couldn't help glancing at Mara Jade, "notwithstanding. Palpatine might have tolerated such practices, we do not."

"Karrde doesn't deal in slaves," and to Thelea's mild surprise, there was genuine offense beneath the flat tone. "And I never heard Thrawn make any protests about that at court. Or telling Vader to keep his Noghri."

"Did you notice him doing anything particularly suicidal?" Thelea retorted. "Palpatine gave him the resources to create what he needed to in this region. Father gave him honest service in return. He may have adapted to some less-savory aspects for convenience," and she suspected some of their own people's ingrained superiority was at work, "But we all use tools we don't like in war. To him the Noghri were a client people, servants, not commodities. Even droids are a bit . . . well." She looked at the little astromech, wondering yet again how much they understood. "In any case, the Ssi-ruuk and the Vagaari are two of the unpleasant but manageable threats. There are also warlords with private fleets, pirates, criminal syndicates . . . most are contained or destroyed within our borders, but there are always those with ambitions. But the real threat is here." She pointed again, to the galactic rim, beyond even the blacked-out reach of the Ascendancy. "There have always been stories and even skirmishes-the Far Outsiders, the insect peoples, even so-called ghost ships crewed by machines from some ancient war. But now, the dark ones are the foremost concern. I showed the Council where they've attacked our ships in Wild Space, but that's just the last few years. These worlds, the ones marked out in yellow, are sites of major assaults. In some cases complete extermination, as you saw, in others abductions of the population or random bombardments and retreats." In spite of it all, in spite of the years and the knowledge of what lay within, she felt a twisting in her gut at how many of those gold specks were along the edges or even within the borders of the Ascendancy itself. It was almost as if they dark ships were taunting her father, as if they knew that was one line he would never cross. "And this isn't just recently. Some of these incidents go back decades." _Mother!_

"We can fight them, or we can fight you," Stent said flatly. "It's reached a point we cannot keep doing both."

"So why shouldn't we just wait for you to be stretched too thin and strike back?" Organa Solo countered.

"Father doesn't try to grasp more than he can hold. You are the easier target, therefore we defeat you and rebuild looking outward, not inward, and face the threats coming for everyone. Join us, and we save a lot of time, resources, and lives." Thelea was still staring at the yellow specks. She ought to not care. What had home ever done for her anyway? Exiled her father, treated her like an orphan brat, hounded her until she had no choice but running away. Stent was no better off–just for answering her father's call and joining the Hand, he'd face arrest at best if he tried to return to Csilla. But so many of those worlds glittering gold on the map were worlds that looked to the Ascendancy for protection, and had failed to find it.

If what Aleishia and Father said were true, some Chiss had even handed them over for the slaughter.

Some of the traitors were her own blood.

She didn't realize until he spoke that Luke had shifted just a bit, watching her, an expression she couldn't quite read in those crystal-blue eyes. "What's this part?" he said quietly, pointing to the darkened Ascendancy. "Areas you haven't explored yet?"

"Or conquered?" She thought the mutter came from Organa Solo's direction, but she wasn't sure.

Thelea could feel Stent staring at her, but she didn't look at him. "That region is the Chiss Ascendancy. It doesn't require exploration as it's a very ancient empire in its own right, more than capable of defending itself, or so they'd have you think. They are very proud, very technologically advanced, and very powerful. They are also isolationist xenophobes who pride themselves on never attacking first but show no mercy when retaliating. Being one of the protectorate worlds of the Ascendancy is viewed as a privilege, at least by the Chiss."

Luke nodded slowly, and she wished she dared risk a mental probe. "They're _your_ people, aren't they?"

Thelea didn't replay for a moment. It should have been an easy question, but the choice of phrase felt wrong. Still, she knew what her father would say. "Yes. They're our people."

Mara had shifted in her seat, too, the green eyes intent on the map. "Thrawn said he was exiled by his people. That boundary marks where he can't go. Or I suppose the right word is won't. I'm not sure 'Thrawn' and 'can't' go together much any more."

"He'd face death if he tried to return," Thelea said. "Not just him. Stent would face arrest for serving an exile. And last time I checked, my family actually put a bounty on my head. Something about stealing a shuttle, which for the record should legally have been mine. If my father changes his mind and decides to make me some kind of heir apparent, having a bounty on me will actually help since I told him if he did that I'd run away and become a pirate." She heard a snorting sound that might have been Stent choking down a laugh. "I already have one birthright I can't claim and don't really want anyway."

"Thrawn told the Emperor he was exiled for striking first against an enemy of his people." It was amazing how quickly Mara could switch from droll sarcasm to deadly serious. Thelea wondered which was closer to her real personality. "That always sounded a little farfetched to me."

"The Vagaari were preparing for war," Stent said, actually moving a little closer to the map. _Give him a few months and he might even consider smiling at them._ "There was never any question of their intentions. The Syndic chose to save more of our people's lives by attacking them first. He knew what the cost would be."

_And he'd already given up on me_. Thelea crushed the thought. Given up on the thought of her being safe anywhere near him, maybe. Convinced that with his wife and brother both dead, his daughter was better off as far from him as possible. "Our people are nothing if not rigid in the application of the law. Even if my mother had been alive I doubt she could have swayed the Council to show clemency. He wouldn't have asked for it anyway. Father would do anything to protect our people. If he has to smash your Republic to rubble, he'll do if. If he has to make himself Emperor, he'll do it. But if we can end this now, if you join us, fewer people have to die and the more allies we have against the dark ships and whatever comes after."

There was a long pause. Finally, Organa Solo said quietly, "You're asking us to forget our dead. To give up on the idea of freedom."

Thelea shook her head. "To unite to prevent more deaths. And freedom is a lovely ideal. But your kind? You could have beaten us a thousand times if your kind of freedom didn't involve arguing among each other more than uniting against a common enemy."

"And if we say no? If we fight the Grand Admiral so much he has to chose between facing us and facing this threat?"

"Then he will turn and defend the people who want his protection." Thelea treaded carefully. They were close to something, she could feel it. "And hope that the enemy doesn't do an end run around us and pick you, the easier target."

There was another, longer, pause. Luke said quietly, "Leia, she's telling the truth. You can feel that, too." His sister didn't give any indication she heard.

Thelea stared at Organa Solo, wishing she understood what was behind those dark eyes, still fixed on the galactic map. "Councilor, I know you're personally angry. I can't blame you. And I know this uniform and their armor and everything about us will always represent the people who destroyed your homeworld. We can't change that. I can't ask you to forgive any of it. But I can ask you to put it aside. Hate Father if you want. Hate me, you wouldn't be the first. But please, for the good of trillions of beings including species you've never even heard of, don't fight us on principle. Don't throw lives away like this. I don't mind dying for a cause but I'd hate for it to be fighting among ourselves instead of fighting the real enemies."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Luke watching his sister carefully, and Thelea resisted the urge to 'look' and see if he was doing more than watch via the Force. Mara's expression was studiously neutral, and she was looking from Thelea to Leia and back again. Thelea channeled her inner aristocrat, what she could find of her, and remained impassive.

Finally, Organa Solo shook her head. "I can't promise to change everything I believe in. Or say that I accept everything you've told me. But I will think about this. That's all I can promise tonight. And you've given me plenty to consider, more than I expected." Something in the sideways look she gave her brother suggested she was at least conceding a point of some sort to him. She picked up her chai cup again and sipped. "This is very interesting. It reminds me a bit of Tarine tea. This is traditional on your world?"

"Yes, and I'm doing a terrible job serving it properly," Thelea admitted, then belatedly realized just how politely Leia had turned the conversation. Intentionally, in fact–she could feel some of the tension draining from the room. "I wasn't raised the way someone of my birth class should have been and I never learned how to serve chai to guests, how to use a fan without putting my eye out, and my calligraphy looks like someone gave a lizard-monkey a paint brush. Father's a commoner by birth and he could probably write better blindfolded than I manage trying my hardest. I'm not any better at being a noble than I am at being a diplomat."

"Thrawn, common?" Mara clearly had no concerns about appearances from the way she was swirling her chai until it sloshed dangerously close to the lip of her cup, though Thelea had no doubt someone trained to blend in at the Imperial Court could probably give even the Princess a run for her money in the ladylike department if she wanted to. "Even that first day he walked into the throne room like he owned the place. And if he's your people's equivalent of a peasant, but you're not–"

"Mother," and she saw Stent lower his eyes briefly, appropriate reverence for the dead. "Father was a trial-son, elevated by merit. Mother was born to a High Family. For some of us, being highborn means you don't have to try as hard. For Mother it meant she had to do everything, and twice as well as those who'd earned their rank, to prove she deserved her status. I should have been her heir, but she died, and once Father was exiled, I guess there was no one to make sure my uncle raised me properly." A grandmother? She thought, sometimes, she remembered a sad, broken woman, older than her years, but it was so vague it was like trying to conjure a ghost. "It's probably for the best. I don't think I'd be very good at being politician anyway."

Leia Organa Solo looked straight at her, and the look sent a shiver down Thelea's spine. Not a bad one, but . . . like a premonition. "You're doing a better job than you think." Her tone had a wry edge. "Maybe your father really does know what he's doing."

"That might be a joke, but I won't pretend I don't know how hard it was for you to make it." Thelea drank the last of the chai in her cup. It was probably rude to finish hers first, but at this point, what difference did it make? "Would anyone care for more chai?" She could at least remember that.

"Thank you, but you've given us a lot to think about. Given _me_ a lot to think about." Once again Leia managed to set her cup down with more grace than Thelea thought she could manage. "I don't know how much I can ever agree to. And I can't forgive your father for threatening my children. But I will think about what you've told me and what you say is at stake. If there's some way to independently confirm this, we will. Tomorrow when the Council reconvenes, I hope you're as straightforward as you've been with us here."

The thought of standing in front of the bickering mass of politicians again was almost enough to make Thelea wish it would all break down in a battle. That at least she knew how to handle. "I will be glad to repeat what I've said here."

"Especially the part about Thrawn being a father," Mara said, putting her cup back on the table. "That part isn't going to get old for a very long time."

Luke's smile looked a lot more genuine. "I hope we have a chance to talk more about your Jedi training, too," and there was no mistaking the glance he gave to her lightsaber. "And your Master. I'd very much like to meet her." He looked faintly wistful. "She might have known my Masters, before. Or even my father."

"I'm sure you will." Thelea wondered what he would think of Master Aleishia's take on Jedi philosophy. "Thank you for listening to me. I hope you know that I mean what I've said. Our intentions are good. And we are running out of time."

"We'll see." Organa Solo rose, Luke, Mara, and Thelea half a second behind. "Good night, Commander Thelea."

"Good night, Councilor." She debated escorting them to the door, took a step, and stopped. It felt like crowding, especially as the astromech rolled by her with a squawking bleat that sounded to her ear like something very impolite indeed. Mara didn't even glance her way, but Skywalker paused at the door and smiled, and she sensed a distinct aura of reassurance about it. Hopefully it wasn't just optimism on his part.

As soon as the door slid shut, Stent visibly slumped. "That seemed like a waste of time."

"I disagree." Thelea picked up the teapot and cups, warning him off from his attempt to take them with a narrow-eyed look. "She's thinking. She's vented her anger and now she's thinking, and Councilor Organa Solo is the key–sway her, we've swayed the Council. And if her brother's on our side, we've almost won."

"I don't like what they said about the Syndic, the Councilor or this Jade person." Stent watched as she placed the pot and cup in the cleaning bay, clearly restraining the urge to say such a task was beneath her. "And I think you told them too much."

"Humans like personal information," Thelea countered. "It makes them feel connected. Telling them things about me, about Father, makes them feel connected to us even if they don't want to. Telling them about Mother? That makes Father a person to them. Not 'the Grand Admiral', not a symbol or a monster. Just a man with a wife and a child. It helps he wasn't involved in things like Alderaan, though. I don't think anything could mitigate that."

"The human Empire really had a weapon that could destroy planets?" He must have heard before, from Thrawn or Fel or any of the other Imperials, but Stent still sounded disbelieving. "And they used it on a populated world?"

"They did." Thelea shuddered, suppressing the memory of the skeletal second Death Star, hanging over the green moon of Endor. "Such a waste of resources."

Stent nodded. "Still, a weapon that powerful . . . we'd never have to fear the dark ships or the Far Outsiders returning again."

"If the Emperor had thought like that we wouldn't be in this situation." _Or if he'd listened to Father, who I'm sure told him his opinion of wasting resources like that._

There was a ping from her comlink, at the same time as the trooper tilted his head. "Holonet transmission for you, Commander, routed through the shuttle."

"Are the Rebels trying to jam it? Or tapping in anywhere we can detect?" Thelea came back to the center of the room.

The trooper paused. "No, ma'am. The transmission originates at Ord Trasi."

"Put it through to the Holonet terminal here." What was her father doing at the shipyards? Then again, that was where the captured Rebel ships from Yag'Dhul had been sent. Possibly there was some issue he'd felt he had to look into personally. She straightened her uniform and hoped her non-regulation hair didn't look too disorderly. She was allowed some leeway, but not an infinite amount.

The terminal blinked and then the half-size image flared to life. She had a second to enjoy the faint irony that some transmissions made _everyone_ look blue before the three figures' identities registered. Her father at the center, Captain Pellaeon over his right shoulder, and to his left–

"Daughter," Thrawn said. "I hope the negotiations are proceeding well."

For a minute, she couldn't find her voice. "Yes, Father," she said, her voice so quiet she was afraid the pickup wouldn't read it. Her whole body seemed to be fighting to breathe, or not, she couldn't quite tell. "Captain Pellaeon," she said, fixing on the first, safe, figure. Then . . . . "Rurik." His eyes were still that crystal blue–of course they were, human eyes didn't change color–but he looked so tired, so much . . . colder. She forced her attention back to her father. "Father, why are you at Ord Trasi? And why is the _Defiance_ there? Has something happened? Has there been another attack?"

Thrawn flinched, and Thelea realized she'd said something wrong. She had no idea what until she saw Rurik's face. Something had changed in his expression, something hardening, drawing in on itself, and she realized, too late, that she'd admitted too much. _Oh, Father, what did you tell him? And why didn't you warn me what it was?_

"There's been a serious development. I'm transmitting a data packet on this channel with the details, but I'm afraid our suspicions about the nature of the enemy drones has been confirmed. The _Defiance_ captured a drone fighter and we were able to ascertain that the ship's core processing unit is also its pilot. In this case," and something in Thrawn's voice rasped just for a moment, "a captured Chiss warrior. He did not survive partial removal from his ship. But he, and the information from his captured ship, have provided us with more information on the enemy vessels, and proves that our assumptions are true. Prisoners are being used to power and control the enemy's ships."

Thelea felt a sick, cold fist grip her insides, and behind her she heard Stent's whispered curse. "And they've practically been stripping some worlds' populations," she said. "Either they are running through their ships fast enough to need replacements, or–"

"Or they are building more." Thrawn's expression was, to another Chiss at least, deadly grim. "I do not think we can afford to assume the former. Will the Rebels surrender and join us?"

"With this new information? I made some progress with Organa Solo in particular tonight, so between that and what you've told me, hopefully tomorrow they'll agree to see things our way." She didn't look at Rurik. She couldn't. He was staring at her, that cold, hard, look in his eyes, no hint of the slightest smile on his lips.

"Inform me the moment they are ready to meet and agree to terms," Thrawn said. He was doing a very determined job of being so impassive even she couldn't read his expression. "We will be returning to Yag'Dhul to await the Rebels' capitulation. The sooner this is accomplished the sooner we can prepare for the new campaign, and can begin to reinforce the defenses of the Core worlds. Our timetable for that must now be accelerated."

"There has been a dramatic increase in activity in Wild Space and the Outer Rim." Rurik's voice sounded older, harder. "This latest encounter suggests even the Ascendancy is becoming concerned. The details from our skirmish are in the data packet."

Thelea almost didn't trust her voice. "Thank you, Captain Caelin." It sounded strange, all the more so because she should be congratulating him, praising him. He _deserved_ the rank and she felt guilty just knowing about it already. "Rurik . . . I . . . I don't know what to say. You look well." _You look well? Did that sound as stupid in Basic as it would have in Cheunh?_

"I'll allow you a moment to–catch up," and she heard the slight pause, and the cautionary note, in her father's voice. He and Captain Pellaeon stepped out of range of the transmitter, but she had no doubt he was nearby, listening.

Rurik, for his part, barely moved. "I'm glad to see you," he said, though somehow it didn't sound quite like he meant it. "No, that's not quite it. I'd thought you were dead. For almost six years I've thought you were dead. It's just the last year or so I'd started to believe it. I'd lost everything, and now . . . ." He looked up, and she saw a ghost of the old Rurik for a moment. "Gir's alive. The Rebels picked him up at Endor, he's been flying for them ever since. We captured him during a battle in the Kessel Sector."

Thelea wasn't sure her system could take much more in the way of shocks. "Gir's _alive?_ He . . . I was so sure he was vaped. You mean we all made it?" For a dizzying moment it was simply impossible to believe. They _had_ all survived. Her wing had done the impossible once again. "I can't believe it. And your ship found him?"

Then she saw the look on Rurik's face. It wasn't anger, or smug satisfaction, or even sadness. It was a kind of grim certainty. "My ship, yes. And that's just it. I wasn't certain until just now, but earlier, you asked what the _Defiance_ was doing here. Meaning you knew I was her captain. You left for Couscant before the _Chimaera_ got our message. Before the Admiral told me you were still alive. He gave me the impression you didn't know I had survived, either, but just now, you were surprised Gir's alive, but you were only surprised that I was here with the Admiral. You weren't surprised I was alive to be anywhere at all."

"Rurik, I–" Why couldn't she be there? Why couldn't she do this face to face and explain in person? Why had Father not told the whole truth? No, she knew the answer there. He'd tried to take the blame. Tried, in his own way, somehow, to make it his fault, minimize the damage. And she'd gone and blown it to more pieces than the Death Star. "I can explain. It's not that I didn't want to see you, but . . . ." _My father, my master, the dark ships, my people . . . ._ Excuses, excuses, and none good ones.

Rurik's smile was painfully sad now. "Thelea, I know you must have had things to deal with. I can forgive that you put duty first now. You always did. You always will. You are really your father's daughter. I understand that. I can forgive that. But . . . I don't know how you escaped Endor, I don't know what condition you were in or what you had to do. But I do know, when you were able to get away, you didn't come looking for the fleet. You didn't come looking for me. You didn't know if I was alive or dead, but you had to know if I'd survived, I'd be with what was left of the fleet. And you went the other way. You had more than five years to come looking for me, and you didn't. I could have forgiven your thinking I was dead. I can almost forgive you for knowing and not coming to find me. But when you didn't know one way or another . . . you didn't even try to find out. I'm not sure if I can forgive you for that. Caelin out." The holo flared and went dark.

Thelea stared at the empty space in the air, half a dozen different excuses caught in her throat. Dimly she was aware that the trooper was gone, presumably on Stent's orders. He was still standing behind her, watching, but for a moment she couldn't think of anything clearly, anything except _And if he can't forgive my not coming when I didn't know . . . if he knew I stood there, listening, with every opportunity to open the door and tell him . . . ._

_I didn't tell him then, and he'll never listen now._

Dimly, she looked down at the terminal and noted the data packet had finished transmitting. She ought to review it. She should know the contents, be prepared to share them, and she knew the implicit order in her father's description of the victim–she owed it to a Chiss warrior to see what had been done, how he had died. But at the moment she was fighting down a growing trembling, a numbness and pain she hadn't felt in ages, struggling to escape somehow from something even the Force couldn't help her put down. It was too much for one day, too much to be the emissary and the diplomat and now this . . . .

She was acutely aware that Stent was watching her and there was another thing, he'd heard it all. She turned, taking a deep breath and clinging to the Force, that steadying energy, to make her voice steady if nothing else. "We'll have to review this data," she said, and her voice was steadier than she'd hoped. "It might be the final evidence we need to sway them." Her legs decided they had cooperated long enough and she sank down on the couch, her fingers clenching. The cut across her real hand's palm stung as her nails dug into it.

Stent watched another moment, and she could see a strange tension, as if he were struggling with something himself. A human wouldn't have noticed, she thought, wouldn't have seen the tightness in his lips or noticed the faint crease between his eyes. "So." Even his tone. No different to most, but to another Chiss, it stabbed. "When you indicated you had other concerns, unfinished business, this Captain Caelin was what you meant."

Thelea wasn't sure for a moment what language to reply in. It was hard to remember any of them. Finally, though, there was only Cheunh. "Yes. In a way. I didn't know. I suppose I do now."

"I see." There was still something so strange in his tone, something she couldn't quite place. "I apologize again for my presumption. When I spoke to the Syndic I assumed that you were free in all respects. I overstepped. You'll require privacy now, I should go. I can speak with the sergeant about the troopers' rest rotations and attend to some of the guarding myself. I'll leave you alone, then."

Something registered. Something snapped. "Oh, not you, too!" She buried her face in her hands, bracing herself as the shaking of suppressed sobs threatened to break loose. Now, though, there was the Force. Now she had help to steady herself, but not alone, not again. When she'd gotten her breath back under control, she looked up. "Stent, please. Stay. I don't–I can't be alone right now. Please."

For a moment, she was sure he was going to withdraw anyway. His expression was studiously impassive, almost as good a mask as her father's could be. Even she couldn't read the expression in his eyes before he lowered them, and nodded. "If that's what you want, my lady."

"Thelea."

Stent hesitated. "Thelea." He sat down one couch cushion's length away, still with a soldier's perfect posture. He could relax, she knew that, but right now somehow the soldier was more comforting. Thelea hesitated, then drew her legs up beneath her, pressing herself against him until he relented and put his arm around her shoulders and let her lean on him until she was ready to face the data from the _Defiance_ and whatever next shock awaited.

 

 


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here you go, all Thrawn, almost all the time! And hopefully just in time to celebrated his Rebels AU counterpart destroying Chopper Base!

 

Thrawn was rarely at a loss for words but as Caelin turned away from the holonet transmitter with his face set in such a cold, impenetrable expression it would have done a Chiss proud, after administering what for all practical purposes was a verbal slap to Thelea's face, Thrawn found himself almost unable to speak.

Caelin, for his part, scarcely blinked. "If there's nothing else, Admiral, with your permission I need to return to my ship. We have preparations to make if we're accompanying you to Yag'Dhul."

For the second time in forty-eight hours Thrawn found himself restraining the uncharacteristic urge to strike a subordinate. He had not given tacit permission for Thelea and Rurik to speak freely just to give the young captain the chance to verbally cut out his daughter's heart. The stab of pain he'd felt when he'd seen the look on Thelea's face just before the signal cut had been so intense it was practically a physical injury. "What was that exchange about, Captain?"

Caelin, damn him, had to temerity to look like he was seriously considering walking off without replying. He looked around, but if the communications crew and officer were listening, they were doing an admirable job of appearing not to. Fixing Thrawn with a direct gaze that skipped along the line between direct and insubordinate, he said, "I thought it was quite clear, sir."

"You were wrong." Thrawn wished yet again that Caelin hadn't apparently learned to stare down a Chiss. "I am not so unfamiliar with human vocal tones I don't recognize sarcasm. You claim to–" He caught himself. Just because the crew appeared not to be listening did not mean every word wasn't being noted for repetition. "You claim to be glad she is alive. To have particular affection for her. You have just gone out of your way to hurt her and I will know the reason."

"The reason?" Caelin's pale eyes glittered with a hardness that was almost admirable. "You heard me. You might have tried to protect her, and I can respect that, I suppose, even if I'm a little surprised. But admirable as that might be, she wasn't in on it and she gave it away. I think she's made her feelings quite clear. Forgive my human emotions, but I can't write that off that easily. I'm glad she's alive. But it's not going to be easy to forget she's never come looking for me, because that suggests you were right and I was wrong, she never wanted anything more. And right now I have a ship to command, so with your permission, Grand Admiral Thrawn, I will return to her and prepare my crew for this new deployment."

Thrawn found he was grinding his teeth. He _wanted_ very much to strip that rank he'd practically gifted to Caelin from his uniform tunic. Or demand to see him on the sparring courts with fully-charged force pikes or vibroblades to beat some discipline and humility into him. But another part of his mind, the part still calculating even now, couldn't help but be impressed at the durasteel in the young officer's voice. And, ingrate or not, the _Defiance_ was one of the most effective ships in the outer fleet. He could very much argue with Caelin's treatment of Thelea, _would_ argue if she tried to mend relations as clearly the boy was completely unworthy of her feelings, but he could _not_ argue with his conduct of his duty.

And wasn't that, at the moment, the critical point?

"Very well, Captain Caelin. I believe that would be the best place for you." He saw the flicker of rebelliousness, but it vanished almost immediately. They might be making progress after all. "When _Defiance_ is at ready status, inform Captain Pellaeon. Dismissed."

Caelin gave him the most perfunctory of perfunctory salutes, spun on his heel, and left the bridge. He didn't even slow on his way to the turbolift when Aleishia, having just exited it, brushed past him and gave him a very odd look. Thrawn flinched–she was wearing the dark outer robe as always, but now underneath she had donned a white undershift and its hems and edging were slashed with deliberately-uneven black stitching. The outer dark robe had white strips sewn in the same sharp-contrasting thread on the cuffs and hem. She was, by Chiss standards, in full mourning. Thrawn thought of Ser'halis, the quiet words spoken over the emaciated body that had once been a powerful warrior, and wondered if it would cause too many questions if he at least added a mourning band on his already-white uniform. Lisetha would have expected it of him.

The Jedi came to a stop at the communications station and studied him and Pellaeon. "What did you do now? I sensed something from Thelea, a moment of distress, and since we aren't making preparations to move on Coruscant immediately I assume it wasn't the Rebels."

The sympathy evaporated. "Captain Caelin was unduly harsh with her and even had the nerve to cut the transmission before she could respond. I may not be a Jedi but I can assume any emotional distress you sensed from my daughter resulted from that."

Aleishia crossed her arms. "You say that as if you didn't set up the conversation, complete with my absence, entirely to provoke that outcome."

"I did not see any point in your presence during an official communication," Thrawn said, with a sudden sense he was picking a treacherous path across a very unstable ice shelf. There was something _different_ in the Jedi's dark eyes, a strange clarity he did not recall seeing before. "Captain Caelin had pertinent information–"

"Which could have been sent as part of the data packet." She was staring straight at him, and he suddenly found himself very much feeling the absence of the ysalamiri. "You were playing games again, Mitth'raw'nuruodo."

"My daughter's life and happiness is not a game." He kept his voice as level as possible, acutely aware of how quiet this part of the bridge had become. "Caelin's become a good captain and he's best left to that role, where he has proven a valuable asset to the Empire. Thelea has other responsibilities, as you know perfectly well. Resolving this situation will be briefly painful and then both can move on. It will be for the best. Ultimately a human would never have been an appropriate partner for her."

If the bridge had been quiet before, it would have been possible to hear a pin drop three decks away now. Even Pellaeon, Thrawn realized, who had turned to officiously review a panel on the wall, had gone still. Thrawn could sympathize. Something had shifted again in Aleishia, something that abruptly reminded him of those Myrkyr hunting beasts Talon Karrde had kept–some still and predatory aspect even in something allegedly tamed. "Would you care to clarify that remark?" She was quiet, calm, and he couldn't recall even Darth Vader seeming so potentially dangerous.

He ought to have said no. But that would have been backing down. "We may look like your kind in superficial ways, but we are not you. Our language, our ways, even our lifespan, are not the same as yours. Mitth'ele'arana is Chiss. Caelin is human. Perhaps attraction is possible. Perhaps even a certain kind of affection. But in my daughter's case, that cannot be enough."

Aleishia was perfectly still, her face a mask that would have done even a Chiss proud, save of course for those strange, hyper-expressive, _human_ eyes. "Yet for some, it was?"

He tried not to look at the harsh black slashes against the white. "For a time. But while I am sorry it ended as it did, you had to know that it was going to end. Thelea is too young to realize that now."

Aleishia remained quiet a moment, and he almost thought he'd silenced her. He should, by now, have known better. "And you're going to protect her from the consequences now, since you failed to protect her from Lisetha's family when she was a child."

Thrawn realized he was counting his own heartbeats. "We are not conducting this conversation on the bridge. And I have duties to attend to. I will overlook your . . . emotional state and forget this conversation."

"No."

Now he was quite sure the entire bridge crew was holding its breath. Pellaeon had gone so still and rigid it couldn't be good for the man's health. "I beg your pardon?" He spoke Cheunh.

Aleishia didn't. "No. And let them hear. Let them understand. If you want them to die for you, show them who you are."

"And who do you think I am?" Somewhere, in the dark recesses of his mind, he could feel something struggling to get out.

"Fallible." She was a statue, one he couldn't even begin to analyze. "Concerned for your crew and the people who look to you. Afraid of failing them. Afraid of what this war is going to cost you or them next. You're not a Sith Lord. You don't rule by causing others to fear. That doesn't make you immune to it yourself only it's not your own death that frightens you. Now your grip is slipping and you can't stand it. You can't maneuver people like ships, Mitth'raw'nuruodo. You can't hold them back from their destinies. Or their birthrights."

"You forget yourself, Master Jedi." He knew his fists were clenched, and he could see Pellaeon, chalk-pale and wide-eyed, edging just a bit closer, as if in preparation to break up a fight. It might actually be necessary if the Jedi didn't shut her mouth. "This is my flagship. And we are discussing my officer and my daughter."

" _My_ apprentice, but I think Caelin's beside the point. Or did Kres'ten'tarthi and I both misread the real source of the objection to _him?_ You can't use the same absurd excuse where he's concerned and you of all people can't be objecting to his birth.." She had an unnervingly direct glare even without accounting for those human eyes. "And now this. Tell me, in that data packet you sent . . . did you tell her exactly who Ser'halis was? Or give her the entirety of the message from the ship named for her own grandfather?" Her eyes narrowed. "Did you tell her that finally, her mother's family wants her back?"

Thrawn dug his nails deep into his palms, acutely aware of the hum of the sublight engines through the deck and the hiss of the air in the ventilation systems, the only sounds anywhere on the bridge. He knew it was the stress, the lack of rest, the constant awareness of the enemy drawing nearer, but he was struggling to contain a blind rage. "You forget who I am, Master Jedi."

Aleishia still did not move. "I'm not sure you've ever understood who _I_ am, Mitth'raw'nuruodo."

_Tired and too old and someone who's lost too many people._ But right now, the similarities were not tempering his anger. "The _Chimaera_ has a sparring court on the fitness deck. I believe we should settle this there." He heard, and ignored, the sharp intake of breath from Pellaeon's direction.

"Agreed." And without waiting for any sort of dismissal, she spun on her heel and stalked back to the turbolift. The billowing of her robe behind her made her seem larger than life and he saw the crew instinctively draw away as she passed.

Thrawn turned. "Captain Pellaeon, you have the bridge."

Pellaeon looked ten years older than he had ten minutes ago. "Sir . . . are you quite certain . . . ." He trailed off, clearly reading the look in Thrawn's eyes. "Yes, sir." Thrawn turned, before the captain mustered up the backbone to offer any further objection, and headed for the lift, already cursing the loss of temper, loss of _face_ , in front of his crew. Well, if the Jedi wanted a fight, this was long overdue. By the time the lift reached the deck where the fitness center was, he was already unbuckling his belt and unfastening his collar. If she wanted to vent her grief and blame physically, so be it.

It might be long past time he did the same.

Pellaeon was still numb with shock well after Thrawn and Aleishia had vanished, to settle this apparently long-simmering argument with . . . what? Force pikes would seem logical, the powered-down sort used in the sparring courts of the fitness center. Surely she wouldn't use her lightsaber. They couldn't intend to literally fight to the death.

Could they?

"Captain?" Lieutenant Tschel sounded as uneasy with the entire situation as Pellaeon felt. "Should we . . . do something about this?"

Pellaeon realized that the entire bridge crew, or at least those who could see the communication station, were staring as well, with expressions ranging from blank confusions to fear to a morbid sort of curiosity. He could sympathize all too well. Still . . . . "They are a Grand Admiral, supreme commander of this ship and the entire fleet, and a Jedi Master, Lieutenant," he said, surprising himself with how steady, resigned even, he sounded even to himself. "Do you honestly think even a squad of stormtroopers could stop them if they didn't wish it?" Tschel winced, but clearly he could see the logic. "In any case, it will relieve some of the tension of waiting, and take their minds off other matters." Such as the agony he'd seen, and the eerie, almost euphoric calm that followed, as Aleishia watched someone who had clearly been very dear to her die. And Pellaeon would have wagered his next year's salary that, unreadable exterior or no, Thrawn was not immune to the weight of the situation, either.

In fact, a sparring session with a worthy opponent might finally drive him to spend an _entire_ shift off-duty. Possibly even getting actual rest.

Of course, it didn't hurt to be cautious. "Have surveillance make sure the recorders are active in the sparring courts, though. Visual only; I think they have aired more grievances than the crew needs to hear as it is," and he raised his voice just enough he could be sure the words would be heard and passed along.

Not that it would stop crew gossip later, of course. Pellaeon winced himself as he started towards the security station to make sure that particular order was followed. He might even have to make sure that some of the gossip found its way to his ears. And the sparring deck recordings to his data pad.

Thrawn hung his uniform jacket on a hook in the changing room adjacent to the sparring courts and buckled on the protective wristbands that would minimize any risk of broken bones, at least in his arms. Not that he expected Aleishia to land many blows. Jedi she might be, she was smaller, and while relative years between Galactic standard and Csilla made it less obvious, functionally she was older. He wouldn't even bother with ysalamiri. She'd know and refuse to fight.

_Or,_ a little voice whispered, _it would remove what excuse he had for any blows she did land._

Aleishia was waiting, practice pike already in hand. She'd abandoned the dark overcloak she'd been wearing, leaving her in the stark white. She knelt at the side of the sparring ring, her eyes closed, the pike resting across her knees, a smile he thought was probably serene but which, in his current mood, looked faintly smug, too. "Are you going to bring in your pets to give me a handicap?" she said in Cheunh, without opening her eyes.

"Are you going to use your powers against me?" He took one of the pikes from its rack, giving it an experimental swing. It had been too long since he'd practiced, let alone against a live opponent instead of droids.

"I don't think I need to." She didn't move, still smiling. "But if it would make you feel better, you can bring in your creatures."

He spun the pike from one hand to the other. "I don't think that will be necessary."

"Indeed. You've always been very confident in yourself," and she rose with a fluidity that was admirable and not at all disconcerting, even though she did not open her eyes until she was standing. "On the surface, at least." She stood just at the edge of the sparring ring. "Are you ready?"

"At your pleasure, Master Jedi." He brought the pike to an at-ready hold.

She nodded, once again almost contemplative.

Then she struck.

Thrawn almost couldn't block the swing, aimed with disconcerting bluntness for his rib cage. He parried, but she was already moving, circling, and her counter pushed his staff up enough she could keep her blow going at his knee. A hook, not a strike, and he dropped, but kept rolling away and met her next attack with a counter-swing hard enough to knock her back into a defensive posture as he sprang back to his feet. "Very good," he managed, focusing on his tone remaining level. He would _not_ let her hear him catch his breath. "For your age, I mean."

Aleishia only smiled thinly and circled, never looking away. "I could say the same for you. You aren't as young as you used to be."

He didn't rise to the bait, instead making several quick strikes that took advantage of his considerable reach on her. "Functionally younger than you, though."

She dodged and parried, ducking under his pike and rolling away. "Thelea is older, too. I wonder sometimes if you forget that."

Thrawn stabbed. The pikes were powered well down and it would only have stung, not shocked her unconscious or worse, but it would still hurt. She evaded, but barely, as he was already swinging the end around and it connected with her arm with a very satisfying crack. "Thelea. Is. My. Child." She managed to dodge the strikes coming with each word, but barely. "It does not matter how old she is!"

"You can't make up for time lost by being overprotective now." She moved back, pike spinning defensively, daring him to follow. "She isn't a child. She's a Jedi, like her mother. You can't protect her from her destiny."

Thrawn fought to keep the surge of anger under control. If he hurt her, killed her, Thelea would sense it, and it would hurt _her_ , much as it pained him to admit that. "Destiny? There's no such thing. A superstitious excuse for failures and mistakes. We make our own path, and Thelea will make hers. Not follow you or anyone else!"

Aleishia parried, but he could see with a flare of satisfaction that it wasn't as easy as it had been. "Not even you?"

"I am her _father_ ," and he struck hard again, landing a blow on her hip. The parry came hard down on the end of his staff, sending a jarring shock up her arms. "I won't let her get her heart broken by a foolish human, I won't sell her into bondage in the guise of a marriage alliance, I won't give her to some upstart warrior, and I will _not_ see her die because of foolish Jedi whims the way her mother did! I won't let that happen again!"

Aleishia paused, stepping almost back to the edge of the ring, not quite out of it. "Now we come to it." He didn't notice at first, but she seemed to not be breathing as hard as this much exertion demanded. "You cannot protect them all. Not and win your war. There won't be any duels where you and only you are at risk. They're going to be at risk. More are going to die."

He brought the staff down in what should have been a crushing blow, but the impact as she brought her own pike up crosswise and blocked it sent painful shocks up his arm. "I am aware of that–"

"I don't think you are." Aleishia swung the pike so quickly he had to retreat. "Each time has made it harder." She caught him hard in the thigh and he slashed down, but she ducked and rolled so quickly it had to be her Force-enhanced reflexes. "Each one you brood. You don't analyze, you don't rest, you don't resolve, you _brood._ " She slashed again, a double blow, one from each end of the pike, and Thrawn found himself in the unfamiliar, uncomfortable position of scrambling to defend himself. "You circle around and around the only logical conclusion because you can't stand to come to it."

Thrawn lashed out, aiming for another strike to her torso, but she dodged so easily he had the infuriating suspicion her early attacks and parries had merely been sounding him out. "And what conclusion is that, Master Jedi?"

"That even the youngest Fleet Commander in the history of the Ascendancy, the trial-son of the Eighth High Family, the chosen husband of the Aristocra of the Second, Grand Admiral, First of the First of the Empire of the Hand _couldn't have saved any of them_." Aleishia followed up with a rapid series of short, sharp strikes so fast he found himself retreating, hoping to throw off her timing long enough to get in a counter. "That you make mistakes. That there are variables you can't control." How could she possibly be talking so easily? "You sit in your room full of art and you look for that one thing you missed, that one change you could have made and Parck would still be alive." A slash at chest level that forced him to take back sharply.

"That tiny clue you didn't see that would have saved Thelea's arm and not almost cost her her life." She cut low, impossibly low, the blow stinging on his calf, and she had the gall to bat away his parry as if it were nothing.

"That step you failed to take that would have spared your brother." The strike _should_ have practically cracked her pike but somehow she redirected the energy from his counter attack, shoved him back with it, and then she hooked low, hard, and his legs were swept from under him. He barely had the presence of mind to bring the pike up to stop the swing but he would have taken the blow rather than the words he knew were coming.

"That one fatal mistake that caused your wife's death." It would have been easier if there were rancor behind the words, but she was calm, pedantic even. And when he tried to use his own pike to push hers away, she held him down, the point of her staff near his throat. "You keep looking because you cannot accept the truth: there is no clue, no missed step, no error. Not even you, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, could have saved them."

He tried to lunge up, but she must have been using the Force because he could feel a heavy pressure that didn't just originate from where her pike was pressing down on his. "You're wrong. You have no idea–"

" _I_ have no idea?" Those strange eyes were dark as space, and hard as vacuum. " _Your_ wife. _My_ apprentice. Do you think I have never second-guessed? Do you think I don't wonder every day if I made some mistake then and I'm making it again now with her daughter? I cannot let that fear dictate her training, and I cannot let it make me hold her back when it's time to let her go. Lisetha didn't go rushing off to help because of anything you or I or anyone did. She chose her path. Just as Parck chose his. Just as Thrass chose his. And no matter how you may try to prevent her, no matter how much I may understand your motives, just as Thelea will."

Thrawn hated the words. More, he hated that he could not deny the truth of them. "I never asked–"

Aleishia laughed, though he noticed the pressure holding him down didn't ease. "Of course you didn't. You didn't have to. Parck knew exactly what he was doing. From the moment she realized what her vision meant Thelea never had a second thought about protecting you. They didn't do it because they thought you expected it of them. You may not _try_ to earn their devotion, but your crews, your officers, would gladly give their lives for you because you _have_ earned it."

"I have let far too many people die to have earned willful sacrifices."

"Everyone dies, Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Not even Jedi or Sith can avoid it forever." She raised the pike and stepped backwards, and he felt the strange pressure vanish. "Much as it pains me to say it," she said as he eased himself to his feet, "while your methods may be harsh and you have that damned Chiss determination to commit without restraint, you're a good leader and the war we're in needs you. Just . . . focus on that. Do what you do best, and let others do their part."

For a moment, Thrawn considered knocking her legs out from under her. But she had already backed far enough away she was just outside the sparring circle. Even if he could reach, that was technically a foul. "I'm impressed, Master Jedi," and perhaps he meant the title a bit more. "Even though I suspect with the ysalamiri, there would have been a different result."

"Perhaps." That serene smile was back and her alien eyes were unreadable as ever. "I apologize for any bruises, and for being . . . less than discrete in front of your second and your crew." She even, accent aside, used all the proper forms in Cheunh to be painfully, almost servilely, self-effacing. Which of course lasted all of a few heartbeats before she added, "Speaking of those you should give more credit, you might try being kinder to Pellaeon once in a while. He's quite talented."

"Of course he is," Thrawn said as he got to his feet far more slowly than he wanted to. He had definitely put his own training aside too much during this campaign. "Why else would I chose his ship as my flagship?"

"I won't suggest you praise your daughter, I was on Csilla too long to expect that, but you might occasionally indicate some approval to your captain," she said, in a tone he knew was especially dry, even for a human. "He is not Chiss, after all."

"I will take that under advisement." _Humans_. "Now, I have duties–"

"Defined for the moment as returning to your quarters and getting some sleep." How someone could sound so matter-of-fact and yet as if their voice was lined with durasteel, he couldn't fathom. Perhaps it was some sort of Jedi talent. "And I mean sleep, not sitting in your throne staring at art until the next duty rotation. You're not getting enough rest, as this should have made abundantly clear. And don't even try to give me that nonsense about not needing proper sleep," she added, even as he was opening his mouth to do just that. "I lived on Csilla. I know better. Force's sake, I used to put Thelea down for her naps."

"I hope more gently than this," Thrawn said dryly. "As you say, Master Jedi, perhaps your being able to pin me so easily indicates I am not getting adequate rest." He didn't want to consider how much she might have a point. The blow that had put him down on the mat had bruised more than his ego. "Perhaps I should retire for a time."

"For the remainder of this rotation," she repeated. "I'll make sure the Captain knows and refrains from disturbing you barring a shipwide emergency. Now are you going, or do I need to make you? I can call in stormtroopers, you know. You may not be weak-minded, but that doesn't go for everyone else around here."

Thrawn resisted the urge to glare. "I wasn't aware you'd been appointed my keeper."

"Thelea has suggested it at times," she admitted readily, then paused. "And Lisetha did once ask me to look after you both. Consider this a belated effort." For a moment the distant pain was back in her eyes.

Thrawn understood, and was grateful his own eyes couldn't convey such obvious emotion. "I will bid you good evening then, Master Aleishia."

"Rest well, Thrawn." He couldn't quite tell if that was a sincere wish, or if there were an implied threat that if he failed to do so, she would enforce matters. Rather than find out, he returned his own pike to the rack and withdrew.

It was one thing to agree to relax. It was another matter entirely to walk through his command room and ignore the dark displays and the duplicate bridge stations, to take one last look and assure himself the _Chimaera_ truly did not require his attention. But had he not chosen this ship, this crew, this captain, in the first place because they had been the most capable in the fleet? Almost two years of his direct command certainly hadn't lessened that. He also resisted the urge to check the local time on Imperial Center, to see if Thelea would be back to addressing the Council, or getting some sleep herself. _If she can, after that,_ a nagging, guilty voice far too like Aleishia's nagged at thim.

Thrawn shook away the thought. He ought to rest. He _needed_ to rest, and not merely because he'd had a harder workout than he'd had time for recently. Still, even knowing that, even feeling tired, it was a long time before he drifted from restless, enforced stillness into actual sleep.

_The deck of the Star Destroyer was dark and empty and cast in shadow. He wasn't sure if it was the_ Admonitor _or the_ Chimaera. _It didn't matter, really. He was alone for the moment, but he knew what was coming. He walked towards the command chair, turned towards the stars, despite every fibre of his being demanding to walk away, but this was a dream and he had no mastery of himself._

" _You didn't deserve it." Parck was staring out at the starfield. His skin was bleached white, eyes dark and shadowed. Of course he was corpse-pale, some part of Thrawn's mind noted. Voss Parck was dead. The fingers curled on the armrests were skeletal. It made no sense; Parck's body was gone, vaporized along with the_ Admonitor _. Even his voice sounded dry and distant. "You should have foreseen the fire ships. Should have known the tactics bel Iblis would use when cornered. I shouldn't have had to die for you."_

" _I never asked you to," and it sounded pleading to Thrawn, not his normal reserve at all. "I would never have asked you to."_

_The skull-like features still didn't turn toward him. "Not aloud. But you knew. You miss nothing. You had to know I would die for you without your having to ask."_

" _It wasn't worth it." But Thrawn heard the doubt in his own voice. Wasn't Thelea right, in a way? He would have been dead, Pellaeon and Aleishia along with him. Could Parck have carried on without him? Could Thelea have taken up his role?_

" _You don't believe I could have. You took everything of me, molded it, my loyalty, my devotion, my life, and you never did more than parcel out crumbs of yours in return," Parck said, the death-white skin stretched taut as he faded into shimmering mist like stardust._

_The new voice was behind him. "You know_ I _couldn't have." Thelea. He staggered as the bridge seemed to tilt with him, cast in red and as dark as the oldest caverns on Csilla. She was behind him, in the black armor but her hair loose and long in a child's queue. In the hellish half light there were shadows under her eyes and the blood flowing from the knife wound in her arm, what looked like more blood than her body could have contained, looked black. "You don't think of me as your heir. I'm your mistake. You abandoned me, let them steal my birthright, my place, even my name." She held a lightsaber in her other hand, not her black-hilted red blade, her mother's glowing gold. "Now you think you can make up for it, but you only put me in more danger. What use am I except to suffer for you?"_

" _You are my child," but it sounded hollow. "You should have let Rukh strike. Not taken my punishment for my crimes."_

" _You mean I should have struck faster, before he could wound me." She turned her bleeding arm, and the flow thickened, pooling on the deck plates. "And now I'm your surrogate again with those who hate and fear you. Maybe they'll sate their desire for revenge on me." She turned the gold saber, raising it over her own wounded arm, and brought it slashing down._

" _No!" Thrawn lunged forward, trying to grab her crumpling form, but it was black smoke and gone and he stumbled. When he caught himself, there was almost no light, and he was in a long, featureless corridor somewhere in the bowels of the ship. There was a sibilant sound, like voices just at the edge of his hearing, speaking some dread and terrible language not meant to be heard except by their own kind. And a faint crackle, energy passing through circuits and coils, electronic information feeding into a core, into–_

" _Ser'halis." The warrior hung in a tangle of the black coils like a web, his lone good eye and half his face visible but much of his body obscured. Tendrils of the webbing stabbed into him and Thrawn flinched, fighting the urge to look away. "I looked for you. I looked for you both!"_

" _Too late." The warrior's voice had a strange resonance. "You came too late. For my lady, and for me. You gave me to the machine. Now we serve the machine. Just as we all will serve the machine. Because you did not come for us."_

" _I searched!" He hated the frantic sound of his own voice even as some tiny part of his mind shrieked wake up, wake up . . . . "Three days we searched. You were gone. The dark ships were gone."_

" _And you let them go." The single eye burned, the only light in the darkness. "You forgot about them."_

" _No, never," Thrawn protested. He wanted to turn and back away but the whispers were behind him and if he turned, he was damned. "There were other threats, more immediate threats–"_

" _Really, brother?"_

_It was his command room, and not. There were no computer banks, only his empty command chair–his throne–at the center. The ring of holograms were not art, they were ancestor portraits, a thousand generations of their people, all staring, all judging this unworthy common-born._

_And in front of the chair was Thrass, as he had been the last moment Thrawn had seen him except as with Parck he was horribly pale and there were cuts like cracks across his features. "Immediate threats, or immediate distractions?"_

" _The Vagaari were a threat to our people," Thrawn protested, but he heard it in his own voice-the younger brother, the pleading child, not himself. "And the Republic, the droids–the Jedi–"_

" _And the Dark Lord," Thrass retorted. "Such a threat you joined them. Served a power-mad vestige of the most ancient threat in our histories."_

" _It was the only way left to me!" Thrawn looked to the command chair, suddenly before him, and for a moment he thought he saw a hooded, shadowed figure there where he usually sat. "To protect our people–"_

" _Did that really matter?" Thrass moved closer, and Thrawn took an involuntary step back. "Did anything matter at all any more besides your having power?"_

" _I don't want that power!" Thrawn protested. He backed up again and stumbled as his legs hit the chair and he sank into it._ _And couldn't stand if he wanted to. His arms and legs were pinned as surely as if there were binders around his wrists and ankles. "I want to protect our people! That's what you wanted! It's what she wanted!"_

_He shouldn't have mentioned her. Thrass's eyes narrowed. "A fine job you did, didn't you? All of us, dead. Thelea next. All so you can 'protect' the people who exiled you in the first place. Or is it ego, little brother? Do you want to protect them, or do you really want them begging for your help, letting you nobly forgive them?" The specter was beside him suddenly, whispering in his ear. "Do you really want to see the Council on its knees before your throne, begging the upstart, common-born by-blow for his aid? And I wonder, when they are, will you really give it to them?"_

_Thrawn squeezed his eyes shut, but in a dream it was very little help. "All I have ever wanted is to protect my people."_

_He could feel a void-like icy cold emanating from where Thrass leaned towards him. "And what has that cost them?"_

Please let me wake up, _and Thrawn wasn't even sure to whom he addressed the plea._ Please, no more ghosts _._

" _You're much too tense, husband."_

_The air around him felt warm, real atmosphere, scented of green plants and flowers. Opening his eyes, he couldn't figure out where he was for a moment. Not Csilla itself, but the room was unquestionably Chiss in style and furnishings. He was reclining on a bed, no longer in his uniform but in soft civilian clothes meant for lounging or non-strenuous recreation. The screened wall panels were drawn back, admitting the breeze and the soft aromas of a temperate world._

_It all seemed strangely familiar, and then it clicked._ Dzehrlo _, he recalled, a moon deep within Ascendancy territory, no native sentients and one of the first colonized as the Chiss spread out from their icy homeworld. Too small with too many mountains to be an agricultural world on a grand scale, not enough valuable minerals for building advanced technology and so not worth the expense of deep mining, but with enough beautiful vistas and hot mineral waters that the colony was largely for recreation and for artisans, and some of the High Families even owned villas and guest houses here._

_Like the one he was in now. This was a guest house owned by the Second Family, operated by distant-branch relatives, and the only occupants at the moment were himself and–_

_Lisetha, not at all ghost-like, was sitting at the open screen, studying something cupped in the palm of her hand. Of course. They'd come here after he'd returned from Xhalat, when he'd come home and met his tiny, perfect baby daughter, been hailed as a hero by the government and the Defense Force. He had been given leave, and he and Lisetha had used a few of those precious days to come here, to be completely alone with each other in the beautiful, relaxing, isolation. She looked almost as she had then, her glorious hair loose, a soft, simple robe wrapped loosely around her, but the way she was studying the object in her hand and something in the lines of her face were not quite what he remembered._

_But then, this was a dream, wasn't it? And never before had one of his dreams turned to this kind of situation._

_He might as well not question, simply enjoy._

" _The weight of the galaxy is not borne lightly." He rose, and the wooden floors certainly felt real under bare feet. "Places like this are few and far between in my life now. And no you to make anywhere seem like a paradise."_

_Lisetha looked at him, and he could have sobbed with relief at tender smile curving her lips. "You take too much on yourself in this. You cannot protect everyone forever, Thrawn. You can only do what you do best–lead. Let the rest take care of itself."_

" _Parck died for me," he said, drinking in her face, her smile, the scent of her hair. "Ser'halis suffered for years."_

_She looked away, out over the lush mountain valley below. "There was nothing you could have done. I know even better now, the enemy is more ancient and powerful and cruel than we could have imagined. It will be so much more dangerous than we thought to defeat them, and so much harder, but we have no choice."_

_Thrawn resisted the urge to try and stroke the long, cobalt locks falling forward over her shoulder as she studied the object resting in her palm. If his fingers passed through her like through empty air, it might be more than he could stand at the moment. "What is that?" he asked instead, looking over her shoulder, bare azure skin showing where the robe had slipped down._

_Lisetha tilted her head, studying the tiny item. It was a flower, five-petalled, with a tiny cone at the center with a yellow heart and slender filaments around it. "They call it an orange blossom," she said, gently touching one of the white petals with a fingertip. "It forms a rather pleasant-tasting fruit, but just the fragrance is rather soothing, don't you think?"_

" _Exotic," wondering when he'd ever seen such a thing to dream about it now, but it didn't seem to matter much at the moment. "You ought to wear it in your hair, half-of-my-heart."_

_Lisetha looked up, smiling so invitingly, he reached out to take the blossom from her palm, his fingers millimeters from her skin._

The sound of the computer's tone made him open his eyes, and Thrawn found himself staring at the bulkhead above his bunk, and at his hand, still outstretched to lift the alien blossom from his wife's ghostly hand. Regret washed over him as he let his hand fall, even knowing it was just well.

_Strange,_ he thought. _That time, just once, I almost think I could have touched her._

_Elsewhere:_

"Lady Lisetha?"

Melia kept her hands folded. She was not, quite, in her old uniform for travel (it was banned where they were going in any case, not that she'd be permitted to board the Earth Alliance station itself), but the posture with gloved hands in front of her was easy to fall into. Reaching out and touching a dreaming telepath, or whatever Lady Lisetha actually was, when they were dreaming could be dangerous, particularly to a fellow telepath. But the enhancement effect of hyperspace meant Melia had sensed their 'guest's' distress, even from the White Star's bridge well outside her line of sight. She'd seen the look Sheridan had given her, realized he knew about _that_ , too, but the tangle of sudden confusion and a kind of distress from the rest chamber had been more pressing.

Lisetha, balanced with apparent easy on one of the Minbari's ridiculous angled beds, opened her eyes and drew in a sudden, deep breath. For a moment, she didn't move, and Melia could see she see was assessing her surrounding. See, and feel, and she p'cast a wordless sense of herself and reassurance before she said, "Lady Lisetha? I . . . overheard your thoughts. Are you quite all right?"

Lisetha blinked, and slowly edged herself up until she was in a sitting position rather than at that absurd forty-five degree angle. "Yes, Ms Reynard," she said, in that indefinable accent. "I am all right. I was just dreaming. Only . . . ."

She paused, and Melia reached out a cautious, low-level probe, hearing that confusion that had called her down from the bridge. "Only what?"

Lisetha was staring down at the empty palm of her hand. "Only this time," she said wistfully, "I almost thought I could have touched him."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, that took longer than I thought! Fair warning to readers: work is about to get crazy busy as May is school tour month. Hopefully I will get Specters and this updated again shortly, but please bear with me until things slow up once school's out and we slow down a bit. And if anyone's wondering, first, yes, I read Thrawn. Obviously. Like, stayed up until after three in the morning reading it on my Kindle. And to say that I am happy is understating the case. Also I would like it noted for the record: I posted the last chapter of Resurrection with Thrawn's nightmare of regrets and Aleishia's lecture on second-guessing long before I could have read Thrawn's canonical journal entry on the subject.

 

William was watching the entrance to the White Star's bridge when they entered, so Melia knew at least one person had been concerned about her absence. The Minbari Ranger, Nireal, also glanced their way, but his gaze mostly fell on Lady Lisetha ghosting along behind her. Melia's constant passive scan caught a trace of alien-tinged concern, with proprietary overtones. Nothing romantic, at least not that she could tell, almost . . . parental. Possessive. As if the Lady's safety was his personal responsibility and he was assuring himself she was well.

He _had_ , of course, volunteered his White Star and crew for the mission to Babylon 5 and the allegedly-empty planet nearby immediately when Delenn and Sheridan had agreed to investigate the possibility this "Great Machine" could be used to help their castaway from another galaxy return home. Melia was still moderately stewing about that, but the deception went all the way back to Sinclair's time as station commander and whatever had happened to him, he was beyond Earth's reach.

Not that it was her problem any more.

_Earth doesn't want me. Wasn't that the deal?_

_So why is it so damn hard to stop caring?_

She didn't realize she'd thought quite so loud until William replied, _Are you still sure about this?_

Of course not. _Of course I am._ Besides, at this point, what did they really have to lose?

Sheridan was in the captain's chair, looking and feeling absurdly pleased with himself. Delenn stood beside him, not speaking, but Melia didn't have to be a telepath to see that while both were preoccupied, and reasonably so given the circumstances, being together on the bridge of a White Star had some deeper meaning for them. Well, why wouldn't it? During the war and Sheridan's rebellion a ship like this had been his flagship. They probably had a lot of memories, some good, some bad, centered on a bridge much like this one. And neither was a telepath, so if she wished, she could take a casual stroll through the ones on the surface of their minds and no one would be the wiser.

She felt an odd pressure behind her and turned. Lisetha was studying her, the glowing, pupil-less eyes hard to look at for more than a moment and even harder to read. She had improved her walls somehow, or at least Melia didn't get more than the shallowest surface impression, but there was still the uneasy feeling of being measured in some imperceptible way.

Melia put aside any thoughts of scanning Sheridan or Delenn, even out of idle curiosity. She was fairly sure Lady Lisetha couldn't actually block her, but something about the alien made her feel just slightly guilty for even considering it.

It was somewhat annoying, truth to tell.

Sheridan turned in his chair as they approached. "We'll be coming up on the Babylon 5 jump gate beacon soon. When we arrive, I'll need to inform Captain Lochley we're here, but we won't have to dock at the station initially, unless Draal doesn't make contact with us aboard the White Star." He looked at Melia. "I do have to notify her that you're aboard, Ms Reynard. Epsilon III itself might be neutral, but as far as Babylon 5 goes–"

"I can't leave the ship or I violate my parole," she interrupted, knowing even before she sensed the annoyance he recognized her tone of voice all too well. Even if Sheridan was smart enough to know she hadn't really scanned him to know what he was going to say, he caught the implication. Old habit, more than real annoyance, but she had few pleasures left like it.

"You are not permitted aboard this Babylon 5?" Lisetha's accent made the place sound far more exotic than it ever had been in Melia's eyes.

"The terms of my parole forbid my entering any Earth Alliance colony or facility including Mars Dome, Earth itself, and Babylon 5," she said. It didn't sting quite as much any more, she noted. "Technically as long as I'm aboard the White Star, I'm not really in violation, but if I went aboard they could, if they wanted, arrest me and send me back to Earth." They had given Lisetha access to histories in the few days it had taken Sheridan and Delenn to arrange the departure. Even though their guest had rapidly improved her understanding of their language, especially with William and his experience with alien telepaths helping, Melia wasn't sure how much of certain aspects she really understood. She'd responded to the new official description of the Psi Corps, MetaPol, the Psi Cops, and what they had done during the wars against the Shadows and the revolt against Clark with the same distressing equanimity she seemed to regard all the information being pressed on her. There had been something in how she'd regarded Melia, though, a kind of understanding and almost pity, that was in some ways worse than the typical loathing and disgust.

Almost.

One of the Minbari pilots, or at least she assumed that was what their job was, said something, and Nireal, obviously thinking of both their guest and the few humans on the bridge, repeated in English, "Jump point activated, Entil'Zha." Outside, the red streaked and shifted to blue as they exited into normal space. Melia flinched at the unpleasantly-familiar silhouette of the station ahead, and focused her attention on the barren world nearby. Deceptively barren, if the records, and Delenn, were to be believed.

"And this planet we are going to?" Lisetha also had a politician-like knack for speaking around uncomfortable matters. Melia didn't entirely understand the political system Lisetha had described but she did seem to have been some sort of member of her people's ruling order. She probably had a great deal of practice.

"Epsilon III was selected for the Babylon Project because it's in neutral territory," Sheridan said. "And we thought at the time the planet was uninhabited. But the first year Babylon 5 was operational, the station commander discovered that wasn't the case."

"The interior of the planet is all designed to support the Great Machine, built thousands of years ago by a race whose name is lost to us." Melia wondered if Delenn always passed along information as if it were part of an epic story. "The machine is powerful enough to enhance transmissions, defend itself against all attack, store all that which it observes, and it once even was used to make a gateway across time itself."

"I'd believe _that_ when I saw it," Melia muttered, but the dirty look from Sheridan and the mental poke from William cut off any further speculation.

"And now you come looking for help again," said a booming voice. Thirty-odd years of Psi Corps training meant Melia managed not to visibly jump out of her skin–a Psi Cop was never startled–but she was, besides Delenn, the only one. The figure who appeared out of a golden glow on the White Star's bridge was Minbari, older and bearded but with a rather avuncular air for someone who had just appeared out of nothing. More disconcerting was the void where even the alien surface emotions should have been. A brief query told her he wasn't simply blocking; William had the same response. "Delenn, my old student," the stranger said warmly, "and President Sheridan. What brings you back to my corner of space?"

And then his eyes fell on Lisetha. She was either better at containing her surprise than most people or she didn't find a Minbari appearing out of nowhere on the ship all that surprising. Instead, she studied him with those glowing eyes, and gave a slight bow of acknowledgment.

"I see," the stranger said. "You've brought me a mystery, haven't you?"

Delenn looked as pleased as Melia had ever seen her. "Hello, old friend," she said, and she radiated sincere joy. "And yes, we are hoping you can help us. Lady Lisetha," and she gestured, "was rescued by the Vorlons. She comes from across intergalactic space, and the ancient enemy opened a path she fell through. Her people are still in danger and she hopes to return to them."

"We're hoping," Sheridan put in, "that the Great Machine has information, either about how she got here, or how the Shadows opened the path through hyperspace dimensions in the first place."

"Lady Lisetha," the strange Minbari said, rolling the syllables around like a musical phrase. "I can certainly see you don't belong here. Though perhaps you aren't the only one." He looked briefly in Melia's direction, and it took a concerted effort to keep her expression blank. "I am Draal. And I think my old pupil Delenn is quite correct–you do need to come down and visit me."

Lisetha, who looked as if she was addressed by strange semi-solid images of bombastic Minbari appearing out of nowhere every day, nodded politely. "If there is any help you can provide, Draal, I will be very grateful."

"Will you?" The look he gave her belonged in every dictionary next to the word 'inscrutable.' "We'll see about that. Yes, you had best come down. It's been some time since I had visitors. I'll be sure to dust myself off before you arrive." The image glowed bright gold for a moment, and faded away.

The chime from one of the consoles made them all jump (again, save Delenn.) Nireal studied the instruments, which still looked like a bunch of colored glass to Melia, and said, "Transponder beacon activated. We are being sent a course for landing."

"Then we'd better follow instructions," Sheridan said, obviously having decided contacting Babylon 5 itself could wait. "If Draal's that anxious to talk to us, we won't keep him waiting."

"I would not wish to," Lisetha said, still with that quiet, reserved tone. Melia couldn't sense any fluctuation in her mood, but it was always hard to tell with someone who could shield.

The White Star landed in the docking hangar without any further holographic apparitions, but Sheridan and Delenn still had suggested, politely but firmly, that Melia remain aboard. William was not at all sure he was an adequate substitute, and had been about to protest, when she'd p'cast _Don't fight. You're the diplomat, and you don't mind aliens. Besides, you're the one who broke through to her in the first place. And we all saw who he looked at when he said some other people didn't belong here, either._

_I think you're reading too much into that, but if it makes Sheridan feel better . . . ._ The entire exchange took less than a second, and Sheridan hadn't objected when William fell in beside Lisetha, with Ranger Nireal on her opposite side, as they descended to the depressingly-ordinary docking cavern. The cut-rock tunnels were also surprisingly mundane, and William was mildly relieved that he was well out of even Melia's range so she couldn't pick up on his increasing concern this was a wild-goose chase. Sheridan and Delenn seemed at ease, though, and while as always a Minbari's surface feelings weren't always quite as clear, Delenn in particular seemed eager, almost giddily expectant. She _had_ greeted the strange Minbari as 'old friend', of course.

Their progress was too quiet for William, and he said, "A strange place to find advanced technology. So deep underground. It's dark down here."

That earned him a reproving look from Nireal, but Lisetha turned, her eyes more luminous than usual in the darkness. "So you are like our humans, then? You don't see well in the dark."

"You do?" It was probably a rude question, but he couldn't help it, and was relieved when the only impression he had of her surface thoughts was quiet amusement.

"Yes. And we live underground on my world, or rather, deep beneath the glaciers and pack ice." She looked around. "These tunnels are rather small compared to our transit passages, but they _are_ warmer." Her brow furrowed. "Warmer than I'd expect, even. And is that humming sound seismic?"

Sheridan glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "You're about to see part of the reason for that."

"What hum?" But William didn't notice that Lisetha didn't reply as they came out of the tunnel into a cavern that was like he imagined standing inside an optic cable would be. Now the thrum of some sort of energy was clearly audible, and pulses of lights raced up and down the walls of the tunnel. He looked up, but the shaft was so tall even with the glow of the energy it vanished into blackness hundreds of meteres above, and he didn't dare look down over the sides of the walkway, which continued across the chasm.

Apparently he wasn't the only one taken aback by the site. "In Valen's name," Nireal gasped. Lisestha said nothing, but she was looking up and there was the slightest crease between her eyes.

"And this is just one of the conduits," Sheridan said, gazing up with almost as much wonder as the rest of them who hadn't seen it before. "You could spend a lifetime exploring Epsilon III and not even begin to understand the Great Machine."

"Even Draal has said he has not begun to learn the half of it," Delenn said.

"So this Draal is caretaker of this place?" Lisetha asked, following them out onto the walkway as if crossing bottomless pits was a casual stroll through the park.

"I believe he was a teacher of the Religious Caste at one time," Nireal said. "Is that correct, Entil'zha?"

"He was, once," Delenn said, with the warm mental sense of someone recalling pleasant memories. "Now, he is the keeper of the Great Machine. A caretaker, and something more."

"It's a bit more involved than just keeping the place organized," Sheridan said. "It's something you have to see to believe. I won't say understand, because–well, you'll see." That didn't sound very reassuring to William, even if Nireal nodded and smiled with that Ranger equanimity that seemed to come so easily to them. Lisetha only inclined her head politely, her lips just slightly curved up, and followed.

The chamber they entered was lit as bright as daylight, though William would have been hard pressed to say how as there were no panels that looked anything like a light source. He had no real time to consider that, though, because the same Minbari who had appeared on the bridge of the White Star was approaching them, beaming in a way that seemed very unusual for one of the serene Religious caste.

"I see you remembered the way," he said, giving Delenn the bow with folded hand typical of their caste. "Excellent." His gaze once again settled on Lisetha, who gave a gentle half-bow reminiscent of the Minbari greeting. "Down here, I might have a way to figure out who you are and where you come from."

"I am fairly certain of the first part," Lisetha replied. "At least, as much as any being with sufficient ego ever can be. And as for the second, I know where I came from. It's where that is in relation to this place that is the problem."

"I've been doing some looking while you were coming down here," Draal said, guiding them toward the center of the chamber wall, where conduits of glowing cables ran down toward a center alcove. "And nowhere in the machine's memory are there any images of a people like you. You are an anomaly." Abruptly he narrowed his eyes and stared hard at her. "I haven't decided what sort yet."

If Lisetha was in any way fazed by this abrupt scrutiny, she gave no indication, outward or inward that William could detect. "I hope one you can assist," was all she said.

Draal continued to stare piercingly at her for a moment, and then he gave a deep laugh–from across the room. William jumped, and Nireal spun in a way that suggested only lightning-quick reflexes kept him from drawing his fighting pike. Delenn and Sheridan merely turned, and Lisetha only raised an eyebrow as Drall stepped from the alcove in the wall, shaking himself a bit, and abruptly William heard the surface thoughts he belatedly realized had been absent from the Draal who'd been speaking a moment ago.

"Holographic technology," was all Lisetha said. "I had begun to think no one here possessed it."

"You have hologram transmissions where you come from?" Sheridan asked, his attention diverted. "As communications, I mean, not recordings?"

"Of course," and her shrug was eloquent. "Most of the galaxy has such abilities. Our methods are somewhat different than the Core worlds', but the principle is quite ancient."

Sheridan shook his head. "The Centauri have a form of it, but their civilization is thousands of years old. The same for the Minbari, but-"

"We have never developed anything as complex as the method Draal uses," Delenn finished for him, in a manner that reminded William of how he and Melia could finish each other's thoughts, all the more impressive as neither Sheridan nor Delenn had anything but marital intuition to help. "How old is your people's society?"

Lisetha tilted her head as if calculating. "It's thought that the sleepers who colonized our world and became the Chiss people arrived twelve, perhaps fifteen thousand of our planetary years ago. That is I understand about twenty thousand or so of the years the peoples of the galactic core use. It is hard to say how long it took for us to become as you see me now." She indicated her skin with a light brush of her fingertips across her wrist. "All but the most ancient records in the Archives, though, depict us with our skin and eyes as we consider normal."

William blinked. "Twenty thousand years? You're saying your world was colonized by space travels twenty thousand years before you were born?"

"There are more things in the universe than are dreamed of by human philosophy," Draal said, but there was a serious edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. "Or Minbari, for that matter. If you'll step this way, Lady Lisetha, I have the machine calibrated for a mind other than my own. Perhaps we can discover more about how you came to be here, though I caution you, as the Machine has never had one your people in it before, I cannot promise how it will respond. It's entirely possible it might show you things I cannot anticipate which might shock or horrify you, or even drive you mad."

She blinked, and though William could sense enough of her surface thoughts he knew she _was_ responding, she simply kept her facial expression preternaturally blank, at least as far as he could see. "Perhaps I'm mad now," she said, with another of those eloquent shrugs. "If so, perhaps the machine will drive me sane."

Draal studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Then a slow grin spread across his face. "I suspect I like you. You're the sort of trouble we've been short on since Commander Ivanova went away."

"In the number of times I've been called trouble, I believe that is the first time it was intended as a compliment." Lisetha did smile, a touch more than she had before.

Draal guided her to the alcove he'd stepped out of. It was roughly the shape of a humanoid body, with a place for outstretched arms to rest. "Don't mind any cobwebs," Draal said, guiding Lisetha to stand inside the alcove. "I forget to ask Zathras to dust me at times. Now, when you are in the machine, think back to the place where the Rangers found you. Remember how you got there, and let the machine help you backtrack. Whatever you do, do not try to fight its direction. And if you encounter any strange beings that take an interest in you, come back at once, do not let them see you!"

Lisetha looked faintly puzzled, but she took a deep breath. On an impulse he didn't entirely understand, William relaxed his walls, trying to focus on the sounds of her thoughts without intruding too far or being distracted by the others. She was worried, more than she showed, but more intrigued than anything. Not hopeful, though, if she was allowing herself that luxury she wasn't letting it anywhere near the surface.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.

William felt a wash of fear, not his own, and a sense of floating. He closed his eyes, even as he heard Lisetha say "I can see the podcraft," she said, and William could, too. "I'm aboard it . . . how I can I see this now?"

"The Machine recognized a Vorlon transport where none should exist," and Draal's voice sounded distant and hollow. "You see a recording of its progress. Follow it back, back to the Vorlon homeworld."

William realized he was scanning deep enough to see–a starfield, the stars brighter than he ever remembered seeing them, swirls of gasses and glittering frozen trails where comet had passed or stars had died. The world ahead burned with clouds of ochre and dull mossy greens, but they approached no closer, hanging in space. "I don't remember how I came here," and Lisetha's voice echoed, even though some part of his mind thought he shouldn't be able to hear anything, floating in the depths of space. "I think I was injured . . . there was a rift . . . ."

Draal's voice was even farther away. "The Machine observes and records anomalies. Look for those around the Vorlon homeworld. Watch for their ships, and where they passed. Look for anything familiar."

The space around the Vorlon planet flickered, not like sped-up film so much as images fading in and out, sometimes overlapping. Lisetha was in control, William realized, she was sorting the images without conscious thought, her mind more open than any he'd ever encountered, almost entirely a passive filter as if she were simply waiting for some external trigger.

Abruptly the image swerved, racing after a particular Vorlon warship (William suppressed a shudder; he'd been on Centauri Prime during the Shadow Wars for a time and he'd seen the Vorlon's war fleet), into the red night of hyperspace and out again in empty space, where ships he didn't recognize were guarding something, what he thought looked like a strange sort of jump gate, though instead of three or flour independent pylons, this was a complex circular gantry that looked like nothing so much as metal vines spiked with thorns. At the center, there was a light that buckled in and out, flickering blue and then red and then blue again, pulsing almost as if it were being pushed. A large, dark ship was moving towards the center of the vortex.

Small ships, not unlike the ones he and Melia had seen in Lisetha's vision, swarmed away and the Vorlon ship opened fire. The vortex at the heart of the gate flared, the large vessel moving partway into it even as the Vorlon vessel closed, locking some sort of beam on it. The space within the center of the gate seemed to stretch, fighting a titanic kind of tug-of-war that caught the dark ship in the strange transitory point all craft passed through entering hyperspace.

There was a blinding flash, and the ship snapped, the stern spinning off in a tumbling cloud of sparks and explosions, while the bow vanished into the crumpling gate. The energy collapsed in on itself in a cloud of mottled blue and white, but in the last moment, something came tumbling out. The craft appeared to be the size, more or less, of a Minbari flyer, but it had a sleeker, more dartlike design, obviously intended for at defense and speed. It was also clearly out of control, tumbling end over end with its engines dark, and it made no effort to evade as the Vorlon's grappling beam locked on it and began to draw it towards the ship.

"That's it," Lisetha said, or thought. "There I am. I thought I would collapse the gate, but . . . instead it brought me here. And the debris from the ship they were trying to send through–it might have come out where I started from."

"The Machine can analyze the gateway, and see how they planned to open it," Draal said. "Now I know for certain what part to analyze now. Now pull away, and follow the path back."

But Lisetha paused. William could feel that strange passive scan expand, searching, testing the limits of the Machine's range. She was reaching for something, hunting, stretching distances that would have stunned the most powerful telepaths he had ever encountered, human or otherwise. She was feeding off some energy he didn't recognize but which was everywhere and nowhere and its own being and emanating from everything, and it flowed to her. He could feel the tenuous links forming, worlds with minds clustered in mass populations, farther away than he'd ever thought possible. And across the vast gulf Lisetha was looking for one among trillions, one bright spark in that infinite mass of lights. She stretched herself so thin he thought she'd certainly snap back, or dissipate completely, but still she reached.

_And she found it_. He felt his own eyes watering at the rush of joy and longing from Lisetha as she reached out for that one tiny light, unique in the glow. The spark seemed to flicker drowsily at Lisetha's touch, half-asleep, and William had the sense of encompassing arms and Lisetha's voice murmuring _Little one . . . ._

There was the impression of pre-dawn light, a room in a towering building, in a city full of such places, and there were millions of minds, awake and asleep, all around. And it was simply one bright spot in a much vaster world, though William could sense the import of it even before he sensed Lisetha's puzzled pleasure at finding the object of her search here, at the heart of someplace.

Then, carried along as he was, he felt cold.

Lisetha's sense abruptly focused, hard, an effort that unwittingly seemed to draw on him, too, and he could feel himself shaking with the exertion. She was hunting again, but this had a dark edge to it, a cold certainty. Somewhere near that glowing world, lurking in the interstellar depths, there was a group of ships. Not precisely the same as the ones he'd seen confronting the Vorlons at the stellar gate, but he could see they were close kin.

The alarm choked him and her mind leapt back to that other spark, the Machine surging with the force of her will and his own strength draining with it, and now he could make out her voice distinctly even as he felt the last of his energy melt away and hands, he thought Nireal's, grabbing him as his knees buckled: " _Thelea! Thelea, wake up! They're coming! They're coming for Coruscant, you have to wake up! Thelea! Wake up!"_

" _Mother!_ "

Thelea sat bolt upright, her fingers clenching into the unfamiliar sheets and twisting them into knots before her mind cleared and she remembered where she was.

_Guest quarters. The old Imperial palace. Coruscant. You're a diplomat, or supposed to be._

Her breathing slowed, and she steadied herself in the Force. Her heart's hammering began to ease and she reached out. Stent's mind was quietly alert and awake, but not alarmed, and she turned. He was sitting near the room's only door, his back to the wall, where he could see the bed and be within reach of anyone attempting to enter, either via the door or the windows, which were filtered opaque for sleep. His eyes were open, but he otherwise hadn't moved. She suspected his right hand had been resting on the grip of his charric since he'd sat down.

"Bad dreams?" was all he said. There was nothing accusatory, and nothing particularly concerned, in his tone. To allow any to show would have been impolite.

Thelea let out a slow, steadying breath. "Not exactly. I only thought, for a minute . . . ." She shook her head. _Little one . . . Thelea, wake up . . . they're coming for Coruscant, wake up!_ It was her mother's voice, and she had felt, she'd almost been sure, a familiar sense of being warmly embraced, before the sudden alarm, a pressure, a deep conviction there was some threat looming. But, other than a lingering feeling of unease, there was nothing, and that would probably go away as soon as she had her first mug of caf.

"Nothing," she said finally, climbing out of bed and stretching muscles that were somehow more tense than they'd been napping on the shuttle. "As you say, bad dreams."

She caught the slight flicker of suspicion, quickly hidden, and then Stent shrugged. "Given the tension of the situation, that is unsurprising."

"Hm." Thelea turned away, not out of modesty but to hide the faint grimace on her face as she stripped off her nightshirt and headed for the 'fresher. "You _are_ going to change, aren't you? I still can't believe you slept in your clothes."

"If there had been any sort of incident, I would have been prepared," Stent said, but she heard the sound of his belt and holster coming off. "Even stormtrooper nerves can become dull when the night is too quiet."

"Don't let them hear you say that. I'd hate for my chief bodyguard to wind up in Medical." It came out in such a teasing tone she felt a telltale flush on her neck, and ducked into the 'fresher, hopefully before he noticed.

Stent had changed into a fresh uniform and withdrawn to the main room when she emerged, working her hair back into something like an orderly style. It had gotten too easy leaving it in a utilitarian single braid or folded haphazardly into a makeshift bun, but that sort of flyaway look wasn't suitable for the kind of formal situations she was likely to find herself in. She opened the drawer where she'd stored the few changes of clothes she'd packed (far fewer than Father had thought necessary, but then he was never less than overprepared) and paused. The black fleet uniform would be fine, of course, but her fingers lingered over the other jacket she'd brought. This one was cut sharper than the Imperial uniform, with fewer obvious seams, and while it was the same black Stent wore, and had the same patch on the shoulder with the Empire of the Hand's symbol, instead of burgundy-red and grey contrast stitching this one had deep green and gold. She'd fought the urge to ask how long Thrawn had kept this ready, and had made no promises to wear it.

On some level, she'd simply been relieved it was black and not Hierarchical white. Even if she'd been emotionally ready for such a public declaration, a Chiss in a white uniform of any sort was not likely to be helpful in these negotiations.

She hadn't thought even Chiss senses were _that_ sensitive, but the material of the uniform felt _right_ , good against her skin, like being wrapped in an old, familiar blanket. _Some form of tactile memory,_ she chided herself, buckling on the belt with her lightsabers and sidearm. _You can't get homesick for someplace you don't even like._

In the main room, two troopers were still stationed at the door, and it took a quick probe with the Force to know it was Langhva and one of the clones, not the same two who'd been there the night before. Stent was standing three paces back from the windows, watching the traffic lanes that never seemed to slow, no matter how early or late it was. The rich aroma permeating the air said he'd at least had the sense to activate the caf maker and she headed straight for it. "I thought you didn't like heights," she commented, after the first restorative sip. It didn't do anything to dissipate the nagging sense of dread, but it did wake her up.

"Then it's best I confront them, since they seem to be unavoidable here," Stent replied, before turning and taking in her uniform. "If it's not improper to say so, the uniform suits you, Aristocra."

"Do you see me wearing white?" she snapped, and immediately felt a surge of guilt at how his face warmed, embarrassment or shame, she wasn't sure. "I'm sorry, Stent, just . . . if you absolutely can't help it, 'Lady Thelea' is better than . . . that other one."

Stent nodded, but now she was fairly sure the lingering unease was coming from within the room and was partially her fault. "As you wish. But it does suit you, better than the human uniform."

"Just between us, the troopers, and the wall, I'd take a flight suit over either one," she admitted, picking up a shuura from the bowl of fruit on the counter. Stent's eyes narrowed. "If they were going to poison us–"

"They'd have done it already, yes," but when she held it out after having taken a bite to no ill effect, he shook his head, and he was avoiding the caf, too.

The door chime came at the same moment she felt the increasingly-familiar bright signature in the Force that accompanied Luke Skywalker like a glowing cloud. Accompanying him was the equally-familiar if somewhat murkier sense of Mara Jade, and a third person who was both Force-dull and not someone she recognized. This time the troopers didn't ask, and stepped aside at a perfunctory nod from Thelea. Luke and Mara entered with the third person, a slight man not much taller than Thelea with dark hair and brown eyes that were probably friendly when they weren't narrowed in suspicion. Something about him prompted a thought of Rurik, but she ruthlessly shoved the thought into a dark corner of her mind, told it firmly to stay here, and slammed a mental door on it.

Given the quick flicker of a smile she saw cross Skywalker's features, he'd probably noticed even if no one else had.

"Did you volunteer to be our minders?" Thelea asked, after offers of caf had been declined.

"Well, someone has to," Jade said. "And Farmboy here can be a little too trusting at times, so I figured I had better keep an eye on him."

The third man was silent, studying her and Stent with a calculating expression that would have said 'pilot' to her even if she hadn't already suspected. Luke gave the other an encouraging smile. "And we had someone who wanted to meet you both. Commander Thelea, this is Commander Wedge Antilles, Rogue Squadron. Corran Horn is one of his pilots."

Thelea froze, hoping she kept her face blank enough the humans didn't see the brief flicker of revulsion she'd ruthlessly suppressed. Antilles– _the_ Wedge Antilles, leader of Rogue Squadron, and probably responsible for the deaths of a not-insignificant number of her former squadron from _Executor_ , and who knew how many other TIE pilots. Though a voice that reminded her of Master Aleishia's pointed out if he knew she had been an Interceptor pilot, wouldn't he be thinking much the same about her?

Sometimes Jedi equanimity could be damned inconvenient.

"Commander Antilles," she said, hoping the pause hadn't been as long as it had felt. "I hope Lieutenant Horn's squadron mates were glad to see him."

"Those who are still alive," Antilles replied, and she was relieved humans probably couldn't see the tiny flinch at his tone. "His wife was happy to see him, too. I hope we can arrange for a similar welcome-home party for Major Klivian."

"As do I," Thelea said. "Pilots aren't much use in detention cells. I'm surprised you wanted to meet us, though. At least, in person, and not in fighters. Not that you and I haven't come close to that already." Antilles's brow furrowed, and she clarified, "I was at Endor."

Understanding dawned, and something shifted in him–the distrust was still there, but now tempered with a trace of respect. "I'd wonder if we met, but as you're here, that seems unlikely."

"It seems Rebel pilots are just like any other," Thelea retorted, looking at Stent. "We all think we're invincible. This is Commander Kres'ten'tarthi, head of my father's Household Phalanx, and a pilot himself. Not as good as me, but not so bad."

"You use your mystical abilities to cheat," Stent retorted, giving Wedge a polite nod.

Luke chuckled. "Funny, I've heard that a time or two myself."

"They're just jealous," Thelea agreed, grateful only Stent could tell just how much she was fighting down a giggle.

Wedge only rolled his eyes, but his attention was oddly focused on Stent. "Corran gave me a message he said came from you, to be passed on to me. I wanted to make sure that he'd repeated it accurately."

Stent nodded. "The message was 'Soontir sends his regards, and wishes you to know that the family is well.' I trust Lieutenant Horn relayed it correctly?"

Wedge stared at him. "Yes, yes he did." Thelea felt something in the room's tension change, a strange lightening that almost seemed like . . . hope? "Do you understand what it means?"

"Colonel Fel informed me that there is a family connection between you and Lady Fel," Stent said, in that matter-of-fact tone years among humans had taught Thelea was especially annoying in matters like this. "He knew that you would be concerned about her, and wanted to assure you that she and their children are safe."

Antilles looked somewhat dumbstruck, but he nodded slowly. "She's my sister. Lady Fel, Syal, she's my sister."

"Your sister?" Thelea didn't bother trying to hide her surprise. "I thought the colonel married that holo star, Wynssa . . . something. That's your sister?" She had never had much use for human holodramas, but it had been difficult to miss both the obsession among the male crew every time the blonde starlet produced a new drama, or the wailing and only-half-joking hopes for a bad day for 181st when Soontir Fel had made her his bride. At the fortress on Niruaun, she of course had a nodding acquaintance with Lady Fel, but between her Jedi training and special missions, most of her contact was limited to the Colonel and there only official business. And, of course, there was the fact she still was more than a bit in awe of the Empire's premiere pilot.

"Wynssa Starflare," Antilles said. "She ran away from home to be an actress when I was still a kid. I don't think she even knew I survived the fuel depot being destroyed and I had no idea who she was for years. When Fel was . . .well, before he went back to the Empire, he told me about their marriage. I hoped when he disappeared and we couldn't find any trace of her I hoped she was safe, that Isard hadn't found them. They're safe? Syal, the kids?" His smile was a bit twisted and self-deprecating. "Fel?"

"All fine, back on–our base," and she mentally kicked herself even as Stent's eyes narrowed. _No giving things away._ "Wedge Antilles's sister. Did you know this?"

Stent nodded. "I was aware of the fact, and of the irony, though in many ways it's a very logical match. There is certainly a genetic component to such considerable flying skills, so the children of such a match will hopefully inherit them, ideally in even greater amounts. It is surprising humans came to such a match via accident."

"Ask my father sometime how our system of selection worked for him and mother," Thelea said drily. "It certainly explains the youngest boy, Jagged, though."

"Jagged?" Antilles interrupted, and the smile looked like he couldn't help being pleased even while trying. "That was our father's name."

"If he manages to climb into my A-wing's cockpit again, it's going to be your _late_ nephew's name," Thelea growled. "I wasn't joking when I told him I'd hang him by the ankles off the hangar deck if I caught him at it again."

Luke chuckled. "He's Corellian. That just means he'll make sure you don't catch him."

"I still think your response in that situation was excessive," Stent observed.

"He _turned on the targeting computer_ ," Thelea shot back. "Wait until he figures out where the concussion missile launchers are and see how excessive you think I'm being. Especially if your fighter's sitting in front of it at the time."

"Speaking of people's children and toys, where did Thrawn's kid get a Rebel fighter?" Mara asked. "I just assumed you used a captured one at Yag'Dhul."

Thelea shook her head. "Endor. I went down after the shield failed and had to get off-planet somehow. When I ended up having to go alone, the A-wing seemed like the best bet."

Antilles had been distracted, probably still thinking about his sister, but he looked up sharply at that. "You escaped Endor in an A-wing? The morning after the battle?" When she nodded, he shook his head. "So that was you. You were lucky we couldn't scramble faster, but no one was expecting an Imperial breakout, let alone in one of our own fighters. Those were Red Flight pilots who came after you, if you were wondering."

"At the time I was mostly concerned with getting away," Thelea said, one eye on Mara (and she noted Skywalker was doing the same.) The mention of Endor had prompted a brief shuttering behind the woman's sharp green eyes, a sudden attempt to bury an old pain. "Then deciding where to go. I had options, and I chose Father. At the time, mostly to scream at him, but he was forgiving about it in the end." She sighed in spite of herself. "And I forgave him. Most of what I was shouting about wasn't really his fault."

"Hope he's used to people screaming," and Mara's voice had the slight brittle edge of someone forcing humor. "Even if the Council decides to take him up on this negotiating offer, there are going to be a lot of people lining up to air a lot of grievances, loudly."

"Councilor Organa Solo among them?" Thelea said, turning to Luke. "I notice she didn't come with the wake-up committee."

"Leia's in the council chamber," Luke said, "and besides Wedge's message, we did come to escort you. Today you'll start with just the Inner Council and more detailed questions."

"Like what exactly Thrawn means by joining his Empire of the Hand," Mara said, as they started for the door. The troopers who'd been on duty outside the door fell in behind them, and the two who'd been in the suite replaced them guarding the entrance. Thelea thought about saying something about paranoia, but let it go. She wondered if the troopers had worked out some sort of rotation for sleep among themselves or if she'd have to say something. Reminding them to eat might also be prudent.

"He means what he says," Thelea answered Mara, even as she tried to pay attention to the others in the corridors, though there weren't many. She sensed fear, though whether that was of her and Stent or more likely the white-armored troopers, she wasn't sure. And curiosity-she caught more than one glimpse of a face, two, peering out from around corners and ducking away again. They were afraid, but they were also intrigued by the alien Imperials. Curiosity was good. They could work with that. "Father is First of the First, but he's not a dictator. He wants strength through unity. If the New Republic will yield and recognize his authority, he isn't going to terrorize worlds for the fun of it. There's important things to do, and in any case, he doesn't enjoy being cruel."

_They're coming for Coruscant . . . ._

Thelea shivered, and she felt a similar rush of concern from Luke. Even Mara had paused, frowning with the same distracted look Thelea was sure was on her own features. They'd all stopped, prompting Stent and Antilles (who had fallen back, talking between themselves about, presumably, Fel and his family) to give them all puzzled looks.

"Luke?" she said, the name still seeming strange and overly familiar. "I've had an . . . unsettled sense since I woke up. Did you–"

"I just felt it, too," Luke said. His eyes were unfocused and she could feel him reaching out with a broader, more powerful grasp of the Force than she could usually manage on her best day. "There's a disturbance in the Force. Like something was looming."

"And here I was hoping it was just another nebulous bad feeling," Mara said drily. "Those I'm used to by now."

"Stent," and Thelea saw him snap to attention at the slight change in her tone, "contact the troopers on the shuttle. Have them do a scan of the outer system if they can, look for any anomalies."

Stent nodded and raised his comlink, but when he depressed the switch, the only response was a weirding wail of static. He frowned, tried again, but the result was the same. "Jamming," he said.

"That's impossible," said Luke, even as Thelea and Wedge were both reaching for their own comlinks. Thelea's, on the same frequence as Stent's, unsurprisingly emitted the same useless shrieks, but more disturbing was the same static damping down Antilles's channel to Rogue Squadron.

"Broad-wave damping," Mara said grimly. "Unless your people have added dead zones, Skywalker, there's nothing in this part of the palace that should be doing it."

"We didn't," Luke said, glancing at Thelea.

"Nothing of ours." The constant, looming sense of dread was coalescing into certainty, a dark presence that was moving inexorably towards Coruscant, the palace, _her_. "They're coming for Coruscant. They're coming _now._ "


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I *said* I was busy. I apologize for any typos, but this week will be insane and I needed to get this up and finished before the crazy keeps up. Hopefully there will not be as long a wait for the next one, or the next update to Specters and Visions. And yes, I'm being REALLY mean. Character death ahead. Just remember, sometimes in war you go out in a blaze of heroic glory like Parck, sometimes, it's just not your day, like today isn't for...someone. As with the battle of Yag'Dhul, enormous thanks to Grand Admiral Sean for his patient advice and for buying lunch while we discussed how to ruin the New Republic's day.

  


 

Thelea didn't know what she'd expected the Inner Council to involve-more arguing, in all probability–but the distant wail of alerts and rapid-fire reports from Coruscant Defense Force officers was at least more urgent than politics had seemed. Unfortunately with the impending sense of doom crushing down on her, the Force now drumming a constant warning into her skull, it was almost as frustrating. Mon Mothma was once again at the center of things, a pale, slender presence that seemed reassuringly removed from the chaos around her. Organa Solo was there, and Thelea recognized a few of the other councilors, though she noticed Ackbar was absent. Everyone looked when she entered, Luke beside her, with Stent and the Emperor's Hand trailing in her wake and for once, she didn't mind being the center of attention. It saved a lot of time figuring out how to interrupt.

"Chief Councilor Mothma," and she managed to gather up enough self-control for a proper salutation, "It's them. The dark ships. I don't know if they tracked us here, or if this is a coincidence and they want to take a chance with most of your fleet gone, but it's them."

"How do you know?" To her credit, the Rebel leader didn't sound accusatory.

"I sensed a disturbance, and I've felt it before, when the dark fleet attacked a Rim world called Telamara," Thelea said. "Only this time it's much stronger, because I know what I'm sensing. Have you raised the planetary shield?"

"Not completely," Mon Mothma said. "Admiral Ackbar is bringing up our defense fleet, or what remains of it," and Thelea was mildly surprised there was nothing accusatory about her tone. "We have yet to ascertain exactly what the intention of the approaching ships are."

"They're jamming our communication, it's safe to say their intentions are hostile." Thelea forced herself to take a deep breath and she could feel the battle nerves coming back under control. "As soon as the ships are clear–no, wait. Stent, get to the shuttle and send a message to the  _Chimaera_ if you can get one through. They need to know we're under attack."

"Or that your plan is proceeding as intended." Borsk Fey'lya did not have any qualms about interrupting, it seemed. "It is entirely possible, High Councilor, this attack is merely a ploy."

"If we wanted to attack you, Councilor," and Thelea was relieved to not pretend politeness any more, "we would have brought the main fleet and been done with it. Stent,  _go!_ " For once he didn't question or hesitate, giving her a bow that was just a fraction less than he'd have given her father, and spun on his heel, leaving the chamber without even noticing the stares.

"The outer system sensor arrays show distortions that might be ship traffic." The man in the Admiral's uniform–Drayson, that was his name–sounded less than convinced. "The jamming isn't on the normal frequencies, though. It's interfering with our data feed."

What had the data packet said? She'd been so tired, mentally and physically, it had seemed like a blur, but she couldn't afford that now. "Their ships are partially organic technology," she finally managed to remember. "Some of what we've been experiencing as interference may not be deliberate jamming, it may be their ship-to-ship communication disrupting our frequencies." The look Drayson gave her was frankly skeptical and Thelea glared. "We only just found out ourselves. Their ships will fight to the death or self-destruct rather than allow themselves to be captured. This one was . . .lucky." She understood why her father had included the holorecordings of the ship's processor-pilot. It was not only to show her what the enemy did to the captured, or so she could understand further what they faced. In the most clouded of her memories, back in the time when she was a tiny child and her parents were together and happy, there was a memory of a male Chiss that drifted in and out, a male with one eye.

_How many people have they taken from me personally, anyway?_

"I'm not sure how that's supposed to help us," Drayson was saying, and she forced herself to concentrate.

"We can track the anomalous signatures," Thelea said, staring at the displays. The readouts weren't much different than Imperial systems, to the point she was half-convinced the few cosmetic changes had been made for spite. "And there has to be a way to use it to target them without needing to be in visual range."

"With all due respect to our guest," and Thelea knew from experience what that particular Basic phrase meant even without Fey'lya making it obvious, "no matter how  _distinguished_ , our guest is not involved in command decisions."

"We appreciate the input from those with experience of these beings," Mon Mothma said. Thelea made a mental note of that level of diplomacy and filed it away for later. Not that she'd ever achieve it herself, but it was a good example to aim for. "Is the fleet beyond the shield?"

"Not yet, High Councilor," said one of the numerous technicians manning consoles around the room. "There was another of those distortions and Admiral Ackbar wanted to be sure it was only more of the chaff and particulate from the asteroids." The man blinked, as if realizing something, glanced at Thelea, and then looked deliberately away.

"They used ionized chaff to detect the cloaked asteroids that Thr-were in orbit outside the shield," Luke said quietly. There was a soft snort that might have been Mara. "Some of the chaff and particles from the asteroids are still in orbit and they sometimes cause a distortion effect on the shield."

Thelea smiled thinly. "I appreciate the tact, but I am not unacquainted with Father's recent strategies. You should be grateful he simply wanted to keep your forces occupied." Something else about the report was more interesting. "What fleet?"

"We do have  _some_  ships remaining," Drayson said drily. Thelea wondered if dry sarcasm was one of the special qualities looked for in flag officers in all fleets.  _Probably not the Defense Force._  "Admiral Ackbar has taken one of the corvettes and what fighters we can. They will intercept the incoming ships and determine their intentions."

"A corvette?" Thelea knew her father would have disapproved of the alarm in her tone, but sometimes human influence helped rather than hindered. "We have trouble surviving encounters with them using  _Star Destroyers!_ "

"We must make do with what we have remaining to us," Drayson said pointedly. "If we had a few Mon Cal cruisers . . . ."

"We didn't anticipate them attacking you  _now_ ," Thelea said. It wasn't an especially strong argument, but it also was true. The notion that the potential end run she'd mentioned would happen  _now,_ while the war between the Empire and the Rebels was still ongoing, had seemed farfetched even in her father's long-range plans. "They've never been this aggressive, or jumped this far into the Core."

"Perhaps the loss of our primary defense fleet left them feeling ambitious," Fey'lya offered, his fur bristling.

Thelea winced, more so because she caught the look on Mara Jade's face and knew the Emperor's Hand was thinking that was probably right. But all Jade said aloud was, "Maybe it's time for those overtures some of you were thinking about. You want allies against the Empire?"

Fey'lya's cream-colored fur ruffled, and while Thelea didn't understand Bothan body language, she had a sinking feeling he was actually considering it. Before he could say anything, though, the comm officer spoke up again. "Councilors, Admiral Ackbar's fleet is passing through shield range, along with–" He paused. "It appears to be a Z-95, but the identity it's broadcasting matches the shuttle the Imp–the diplomatic envoys were using." He gave Thelea a nervous glance, but she ignored it.

"A Headhunter?"  _Kres'ten'tarthi, what are you up to?_  Thelea yanked her comlink out of its pocket, keying to the shuttle frequency and hoping he'd had the sense to set it to bounce through. "Commander Kres'ten'tarthi, report." She caught the hard looks from several quarters, Leia Organa Solo foremost among them, at the Cheunh, but she had a sneaking suspicion yelling was going to be involved. "Stent, acknowledge."

The jamming squawked a moment, and then the reply came: "Receiving your transmission, my lady."

He even had the nerve to sound blase. "Tell me that's not you in the Z-95."

"The jamming did not permit transmission from the shuttle, and I considered it unwise to remove a potential escape route for you and the stormtroopers. Commander Antilles was able to find a small fighter which I could utilize to transmit from beyond the shield."

"Did you consider this would require your being beyond the shield?" She knew she was using grammar that was higher-handed than he might like, but at the moment, she didn't especially care. "Tell me at least the blaster cannons are charged."

"Naturally." If he was offended by the obviousness, he didn't let it show in his voice. "I do not intend to engage the enemy unless it is necessary, my lady. Now if you will excuse me, I need to send the data transmission you requested." There was another crackle of the jamming, but Thelea had the distinct impression he'd cut the transmission off.

"Stubborn fool pilots with no good sense," she muttered, shoving her comlink away and turning back to the Council. The center of the chamber where she'd put on her own holographic display the day before was now illuminated by a tactical readout. She could see the small cluster of ships in green that must be Ackbar's task force, blue markers for civilian freighters and transports that were rapidly clearing the low-orbit space above and below the shield, and a tiny blip (in uncertain yellow, at least, rather than threat-red) that was the Z-95. "If he gets himself blown up, I will kill him."

"Special friend?" Mara murmured.

"I just don't want to have to explain to Father how I let the head of his Household Phalanx blow himself up in a fighter that was obsolete before I was born," Thelea retorted. "Idiot pilots."

"I'm not unacquainted with the Jedi version of the species," Mara said, and the former Emperor's Hand turned to look at the center of the chamber.

Thelea followed her gaze. At the center display, Luke was standing beside his sister and focusing just as intently as she was on the tactical readout. Leia Organa Solo's expression was a glacial calm that, though Thelea was sure she wouldn't appreciate the comparison, Thrawn himself would have been hard pressed to match. The display flickered again, and the yellow arc of the shield closed over the planet, with Ackbar's small fleet and the Headhunter on the far side. There was another distortion, and the same comm officer noted, "With all that chaff still floating around it's a strain on the sensors."

Thelea didn't pay much attention to the reply, instead studying the readout. There were six fast-moving icons in threat-red moving from the outer system. They had been marked as 'threat-unidentified', which she supposed was at least some sign of realism on the Rebels' parts. The green blips that marked Ackbar's fleet were shifting to an intercept course. Something about the situation felt off, a sensation she couldn't entirely attribute to the Force. This twinge felt more like combat reflexes, the nagging sense that something was off about a situation, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what. The six threat icons fanned out, and she had a strange feeling of familiarity.

Luke was watching her, she realized, that slight smile still curving his lips. Still wanting to make her feel less threatened, less...alien. Because he believed, or wanted to, that she wasn't their enemy? Or was it because she was a lead on a real Jedi?  _Father should have sent Master Aleishia after all._

"It's possible Ackbar will turn them back," Luke said, an observation and an invitation to Thelea to join the conversation.

Thelea took him up on it, halfway, careful to keep Luke between her and his sister. She felt Mara follow after her, even more a deliberate shadow, and she wondered if everyone had really forgotten and forgiven what the red-headed human had been under the old Empire, or if there were still some to whom Mara was as unwelcome here as Thelea was. "If they're looking for a fight, I wouldn't get my hopes up," was all she said aloud. "I'm surprised they already stopped the static jamming–"

And then she heard herself and paused.

"Why can we see them?"

"What?" Leia apparently had forgotten who was speaking, and looked as if she were annoyed with herself for responding.

Thelea ignored it. "The one problem we've always had is their ships are almost impossible to track. Whatever technology they use for hulls and shields doesn't show up on the sensors."

"Perhaps our sensor technology is simply more sophisticated?" said Fey'lya.

Drayson was shaking his head before Thelea could even figure out how to answer without committing a serious diplomatic breach. "Not unless the Imperial Navy has gone through some serious downgrades in the last five years."

"We haven't. So why can we see them now?" She narrowed her eyes, willing herself to see the reason for the change in pattern. "They have to be letting us. Why? What do they gain by letting us track them now?"

"Maybe this isn't an attack," Leia said, and it took a minute for Thelea to realize that the tone was simply thoughtful, not accusatory. "Maybe it really is an attempt to sound us out as allies."

Mara shook her head. "No transmissions. Out-system approach. Jamming comm frequencies at random. Doesn't sound like a friendly approach to me. Even if it's just a matter of not knowing Basic there are much better ways to make overtures."

Luke nodded agreement, and Thelea saw the Emperor's Hand quickly cover a self-deprecating smirk. Obviously agreeing with the hero of the Rebellion still didn't sit quite right. "Something's off. I felt the same disturbance Commander Thelea did," and she was about to dismiss the rank courtesy when she saw the subtle way Drayson and several others eased just a bit, and realized it wasn't for her benefit. "Whatever their intentions are, their feeling in the Force is strange. Cold."

"If we could figure out what their goals were beyond conquest, we'd go a long way towards stopping them." Thelea kept watching the tracking. The enemy's ships were fanning out in a staggered formation that was poking at some memory filed away in the recesses of her mind. The green markers showing Ackbar's group were still in formation, still on that curving intercept course that would now bring them across the invaders' path. "Are there any transmissions?"

She saw the annoyed look from Leia, but the comm officer said "There's some wave interference in the low and high frequency bands. It's not affecting communication between the fleet ships but we're having trouble reaching them, and there's some distortion on the channels on-planet and with the orbital stations."

Thelea frowned, and ignored the flinches at the effect her eyes gave the expression. "And I could get through to Stent. They're letting us communicate, and they're communicating with each other, at least that's what we think that interference means. Why?" Another flicker, like a stone dropped into water, rippled on the representation of the shield. "What was that?"

"More of the chaff," the comm officer said. "There's enough material from the recent . . . events it's almost a navigation problem."

"Really." Thelea watched. "I would have thought by now most of it would be cleared." Another of the distortions, this one against the shield over the palace and unnervingly near the Golan III defense platform in stationary orbit above it. "And that it would be decreasing in frequency."

"We do have the shield at higher power," Leia pointed out, and Thelea could hear a trace of annoyance in the undertone.

"Still . . . can you replay the last few chaff impacts? Going back at least an hour?"

Drayson made a sound annoyingly like a snort and that wasn't the only sound or sense of derision in the room. "Commander Thelea, with all due respect–"

"I believe we should consider any information that might assist us," Mon Mothma interrupted. "Though I would point out, Commander, that time is of the essence."

"Thank you, High Councilor." Thelea wasn't going to argue, and she had the distinct impression she was only going to have a single replay. The sensor data came up as an inset within the display and she tried to focus, ignoring the larger image and the closing lines of ships, and absolutely  _not_  looking for the small gold icon that was the Headhunter. Instead, she watched the rapid-fire display of images, normal traffic, the shield going up, the departure of Ackbar's fleet, the first flare of material breaking up against the shield, then another and then two more as the replay caught up . . . .

"If these are just remnants of the blockade, why are they getting  _more_  frequent?" She wasn't even aware she was speaking aloud. And now that she saw the replay, all were on the daylight side of the planet, when she knew the distribution of the asteroids had been in an orbit, and that they had not only covered the northern hemisphere. She looked back to the enemy fleet, now fanned out in that oddly familiar approach. Ackbar's fleet was approaching them, almost to visual range. That sense of equally-familiar wrongness was becoming impossible to ignore, and she resisted the urge to try and raise Stent on the comm again to get a closer perspective.

She watched the last flicker, and heard the spark of jamming on the comm recording an instant after.

Thelea rounded on the comm officer so quickly even Luke jumped. "Is there a correlation between the jamming and the so-called chaff debris?"

"Commander!" Drayson apparently had hit his limits.

The comm officer, however, was staring at Thelea like a mesmerized womp rat staring at a krayat dragon. "Ah–I can check, if the Admiral will permit it . . . ."

Thelea turned on the Admiral, hoping she didn't look completely insane. "Admiral, we've only just learned more about how their ships communicate. The jamming may not be deliberate, it may be an artifact of their communications interacting with ours. And the reason we're getting intermittent jamming here is that their ships are closer than we think. They're inside the shield."

"Using what? A cloaking device?" Drayson said skeptically. "How could they pass through the shields even cloaked? Wasn't that the Grand Admiral's great secret of firing through shields-hiding a cloaked ship before the planetary shields went up?"

"Our cloaking devices can't fire through, and if they could pass through them we wouldn't have bothered with the asteroids," Thelea retorted. "But these aren't our ships and we've only just gotten a close look at one captured fighter. The technology they're using is too alien to make any conclusions about it other than it appears to be organic, but we do know they don't enter and exit hyperspace the way our ships do. They phase in and out. It makes targeting their entry points or using gravity well generators difficult, but it could also explain why they distort our sensors and it  _might_  allow them to bypass shields."

"That is a great deal of wild speculation," Fey'lya said, his fur bristling. Thelea had to restrain herself from imagining how nice a fur rug it would make.

Mara spoke up again. "Don't be too sure. Her father's made quite the career of wild leaps."

"Father's wild leaps only look like wild leaps because he never explains how he comes to them," Thelea said. "I'm only guessing, but it fits the pattern we're seeing and it explains why they're letting us see them. They  _want_  the ships defending Coruscant to come to them. They  _want_  us to know where they are-or where we think they are."

Drayson was not the only one staring at her with more than a little skepticism. Even Luke was giving her the kind of look she'd learned to expect from Chiss officers on Nirauan or in her father's fleet when this strange, overly young female of no particular rank spoke out of turn, at least until they realized who she was. She wished she had her father's persuasive skill–and possibly at least a little of his height, as that might go a long way to making her more persuasive on its own.

"What could they gain by that?" Mon Mothma's voice cut across the murmurs in the room.

Thelea could read the tone, doubly obvious with a human. The limited opening she had was closing. "Coruscant's defenses rely on two things, the fleet and the defense platforms, and the planetary shield. The fleet's drawn away, the defense platforms are focused on what's on the outside of the shield and couldn't fire down anyway without hitting civilian targets. Even if the fleet can escape those outer ships, they'd never make it back in time to defend the capital."

" _If_ they can escape?" Drayson said.

Thelea wondered if her father's veiled references to her mother's temper were more than just not wanting credit for hers.  _He_  would never be as ready to scream in frustration. "Did you even watch the battle holos we brought? A few Corvettes and snub fighters aren't going to even slow them down much."

The look on Mon Mothma's face didn't change much, and Thelea suspected the humans didn't even notice the tiny tightening at the corners of her mouth, but it might as well have been screaming. "Commander Thelea," the High Councilor began, "we appreciate–"

"Councilors, we have a transmission from Admiral Ackbar," the comm officer interrupted, half out of his seat.

"Put it through," Mon Mothma said, turning away quickly enough she didn't see Thelea grimace.

The comm crackled with electronic interference, but the Mon Cal's gravelly voice cut through it. "Councilors, we are approaching the unknown ships to within visual range. They are not responding to our attempts at hailing them and we have not detected any change to their course. They still appear to be on an intercept vector for Coruscant."

"Do you have a clear visual?" Mon Mothma still spoke in that soft, calm, tone, and Thelea found herself beginning to understand why her father's level voice seemed to irk so many people during an emergency.

"Transmitting now." In spite of herself, Thelea flinched along with the rest when the flickering holo appeared. It might have been the distance, but the image rippled and there was visual static around the edges. Thelea heard the gasps and quickly smothered murmurs as the others in the chamber got their first look at the rippling black skin of the ships, the dull green and gold lights illuminating the hull, the strange, spikelike projections that she knew were almost certainly weapons systems, and the recessed drives that made it hard to tell exactly where the propulsion systems were. "We cannot identify any weapons sites," Ackbar continued, "and the drive configuration does not match any known ships in our databanks."

_Recessed drives . . . ._

Thelea stared. The sense of familiarity was so profound, not from having encountered the dark ships before, but the shape, the design . . . .

_Another of the memories that had slowly filtered back over the years, this one of sitting with her cousins in front of their data tablets, studying the roles of the Families. Today it was the Second Family, traditionally responsible for building the weapons the Defense Force used. Thelea as always was sitting behind her cousins (not that she'd known who they were at the time), mostly ignored, looking at images of the ships the Defence Force used. The particular schematic was of a star drive section, one of the massive engines that propelled the ships into hyperspace. The tutor was detailing the mathematics that allowed the precision leaps and cutoffs which made the Chiss Ascendancy forces so dangerous, how the drives were designed to prevent the kind of feedback or overloads such fast acceleration and deceleration could cause. Thelea had been listening with half an ear, thinking more about the range the_ kaz'yatz'zvda  _drives could take a person, somewhere far from Csilla, than how they worked or why they were set deeper into the superstructure of the hull than most._

She didn't realize Luke was beside her until he murmured, "Is something wrong?" She jumped, annoyed with herself for not paying attention.

She started to speak, to admit to knowing the design, the implication:  _These are our ships. Whoever built these used designs my Family, my people, have been perfecting for centuries._ And for a moment, nothing came out. The image was growing bigger as Ackbar's group closed on the incoming cruisers. Now that she knew what to look for, now that for once she was given a clear view, she could see the weapons emplacements–cluster traps, the energy beam weapons that fired a single massive burst, but others . . . .

Her eyes shifted to the tactical readout showing the relative positions of the ships. Now the fanned-out formation made sense, now she recognized it, even the way the point ships were turning their superstructures towards the oncoming Rebel ships. And she thought of the information Father had sent, the Chiss pilot wired like a computer component into the dark fighter.  _Our people. Our technology. Are these crewed by stolen Chiss captives, slaved to the biotech? Or did some of our people help build them of their own free will?_

_Did some of_ my  _people help build them?_

_If they did, who am I betraying if I tell the Rebels how to kill you? If I even know how._ Deep down she still believed it–the Chiss were the superior builders, fighters, leaders. If they had allied willingly with the enemy, who was right? Could she give the word that would kill her own people? Her own Family's people?

_If my Family is behind this, then what other choice do I have?_

"Admiral!" She saw the startled looks, and even Mon Mothma's forehead creased in annoyance. Thelea ignored them. "Admiral Ackbar, this is Commander Thelea, can you hear me?"

"I hear you, Commander," and she heard the immediate suspicion, even through the gravelly accent of a species meant to be heard under water.

"Admiral, these ships–they're based off Chiss designs. Those engines are designed for precision hyperspace jumps and they can do it easily within a star system. With the dark ships' technology they can probably go right through you if they want." She hesitated a moment. "And that formation they're in is a variation on a Chiss attack vector. I suspect that one of the weapons emplacements is based on an energy-web generator. Like an ion blast, but enveloping a wider target area. And given the alien technology involved it may do more than damage the computer and sensor systems. Repeat, those ships are on a Chiss attack vector. You cannot assume they are non-hostile."

There was a slight pause, one she didn't think was entirely the fault of the jamming. "Thank you, Commander. Is there a counter to this weapon of which you're aware?"

"Staying out of its range. If the other weapons emplacements are based on Chiss technology, those may be maser canons. If they are, they'll pack a much harder hit per shot than a turbolaser battery. If they're the canons the dark ships usually carry–"

"Acknowledged," Ackbar said. "The point ship is accelerating toward our position."

"Do not engage unless they fire first," Mon Mothma said quickly, but the look she was giving Thelea was no longer annoyed. "They may still be offering a feint."

"That might be the right strategy if some of the crew are Chiss," Thelea admitted. "Technically we never fire first. If you don't engage they may at least hesitate."

"Your people don't shoot first?" Mara said, her tone dripping disbelief. "Set aside how dumb a rule that could be, did anyone ever tell Thrawn that?"

"More times than he probably cares to remember," Thelea said dryly, and thumbed her comm. "Stent, are you listening?"

There was another pause, this one broken by the wailing shrieks of the jamming, and then "–repeat, I hear you, my lady."

Thelea was glad he spoke Cheunh and that even if any of the species in the Council chamber could see the relieved flush that she could feel tinging her neck they likely had no idea what it meant. There must have been something of it in the Force, though, because she saw the way Skywalker was watching her. "Stent, did your message get through?"

"I received an acknowledgment from the  _Chimaera,_  but my transmission was jammed before I could receive further reply or an estimate for an arrival." He didn't say it, but she heard the rest of it anyway.  _If there'll be an arrival._  If they were still at Ord Trasi, if  _Chimaera_  or the other Destroyers were still only partially repaired from the damage at Yag'Dhul . . . she shook off the thought before she fixated on it.

"Stay with Admiral Ackbar's fleet. Follow Commander Anitlles's lead and do as instructed," she said, and even as she did she saw the Headhunter turning to form up with the Rebel ships. "If there's any advice you can give, if you see anything you recognize, do not withhold the information. No matter what you may recognize about those ships. They are the enemy and are to be treated as such." She hesitated. "As rightful Aristocra of the Second, I so order it."

"As you command, my lady." If Stent was at all confused, he gave no indication. If he was surprised at the notion there might be their own people aboard, he did not admit it. And if he wondered that she'd given him an Aristocra's order, one to give no quarter against even their own kind, he wasn't questioning it.

Ackbar's ships were reorienting, and the dark ships slowed visibly as their courses abruptly no longer crossed. The tinier Rebel blips, and the yellow marker that was Stent, raced out ahead of the capital ships. Thelea fought down the urge to be out there with them, but her A-wing was light-years away in  _Chimaera'_ s hangar. The sensor officer, with a degree of professionalism that would have probably impressed Thrawn, said "We're picking up indeterminate energy surges, Councilors," he said, "coming from the enemy ships."

"Comm system's jammed again," that officer reported. The squawking interference ranged up and down a scale that set Thelea's teeth on edge, and the holo transmission wavered and broke. A second wail on a slightly higher frequency squealed a discordant harmony and she fought down the urge to cover her ears, barely. Some others in the room didn't bother with dignity.

"Oh, my!"

The voice sounded slightly metallic, and Thelea turned even as Leia said "Threepio . . .." in a cautionary tone. She'd overlooked the golden protocol droid standing with Organa Solo, which seemed impossible now that she noticed it. How a droid with its immobile features could manage to convey nervousness, she had no idea, but the unit certainly gave off the impression of being at the very least, extremely unsettled.

"I am terribly sorry, Mistress Leia, but the similarity of the transmissions to certain high-frequency languages, mostly used by predatory species, was very alarming." The droid had a fussy Core-world accent that in other circumstances Thelea would have found amusing, but right now it was what he'd actually said that caught her attention.

What had Skywalker said? Address the droid directly. At least this one could answer back intelligibly. "Droid–what is your designation?"

"Oh, my," the unit said again, turning to look to Organa Solo, for permission or reassurance, but despite a pursed-lip glance in Thelea's direction, she nodded. "Ah, yes. I am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations. I am fluent in over six million forms of communication. How may I be of assistance?"

"You just said the transmissions reminded you of languages. Can you analyze them and determine what sounds might be communication and which are jamming? And which frequencies they're broadcasting actual language on?" Strange as it was, the droid at least had eyes and a mouth, or a vocal slot that passed for one, which made the concept of talking to a machine slightly less bizarre.

The droid–Threepio–seemed to visibly perk up. "Quite easily, Mistress Thelea. It would simply require compiling the audio files and cross-reference–"

"That would be most helpful, thank you," she said, hoping droids didn't take offense at being interrupted. And trying not to take offense herself at being referred to as 'mistress.' Particularly by a machine that ought to have no reason to listen to a word she said. And she'd thought the notion of servants was awkward . . . . "The sooner you can complete this, the more help it may be to Admiral Ackbar."

"Certainly, Mistress Thelea. That is," and once again he sounded worried, "if it is quite all right, Mistress Leia–"

"Of course, Threepio," and there was a new note to Organa Solo's voice. One that almost might be somewhere in the general vicinity of respect. "Let us know as soon as you have something."

Thelea turned away even as the droid made its stilted way towards the comm station, and nearly ran into Luke. "That was kind of you," he said.

She blinked. "Kind?"

"Most people find Threepio a little . . . trying." From the look on his face, he was exercising that polite understatement again. "You made him feel useful."

She didn't have time for pondering why you'd leave a machine that annoyed people with the programming that was irritating them. Or the question of whether said machine could have feelings about anything, utility or otherwise. "It-he-seems to have useful abilities that might help us. Right now I'll take anything we can get."

"Last night you weren't even sure you could talk to Artoo," Luke said, shrugging as if they weren't in the opening stages of a battle that might kill them all. "Today you asked Threepio his name and spoke to him without asking one of us first."

Thelea sighed, and it was reassuring to see Mara Jade shaking her head at the Jedi's priorities, too. "You appear to treat your droids as people. If it works, then that is what I will do. Our people don't have droids, and the Empire's philosophy regarding them was as I'm sure you're aware quite different. This is neither my homeworld nor the old Empire. And a communications analysis is precisely what is needed."

Mara chuckled, a little humorlessly. "You even talk like your father. He's practical, too, I will give him that."

Thelea wondered what her mother's family would have thought of that. "We need all the answers we can come by," was all she said aloud. "The sooner, the better. Is the transmission up again?"

"Not yet," Luke said. "There's too much interference." He moved to join his sister, and clearly he expected Thelea and Mara both to follow him. "If they're attacking, there might not be time for transmissions or a clear channel to send them on anyway."

Thelea didn't disagree, but she found herself glaring at the static-filled display, despite knowing the expression was likely not helping the technicians' peace of mind. She'd never shied away from combat, and being trapped on the ground with only a shield between her and enemy fighters (assuming she was wrong and only the walls of the old palace were between them) left her feeling painfully small. The holos cut in and out, and she heard what might have been a few muttered curses. "We might have a feed from one of the Golan IIIs," the same voice said finally. "It's not very clean, though."

"Put it through," said Mon Mothma. Thelea found herself leaning forward, willing the distorted, distantly-magnified images to become clearer. The defense platform was relaying a combination of the tiny fleet's transmissions and the Golan's own sensors and now the distortion she expected was back, though their initial, clear readings meant the dark ships couldn't hide quite as effectively. Ackbar had three of the Corvette blockade runners, plus a motley squadron of fighters that she could not help noting included a single Headhunter. The fighters were breaking apart on vectors suggesting they were engaging disparate targets, and Thelea felt another surge of envy at being able to do  _something_ , no matter how dangerous or more ultimately futile. Two of the enemy cruisers were accelerating, or at least that was what she thought the blurred, distorted tracking suggested. One was racing for the point Corvette, and there was a flickering surge of energy around it.

_The sense of cold and danger and terrible prescience._ She turned, and Luke's eyes were wide and Mara had a suddenly-grim set to her face. "There' s something–" she started to say, but there was an almost overwhelming pressure that said  _Too late._

There was a burst of static on the display and the signal broke up into a scattering of light.

"Get the signal back!" Drayson snapped in the direction of the comm/scan station, but Thelea already knew. Whether the Force had given her prescience, or the signal delay was simply long enough she'd felt it as it happened before the signal reached the planet, it didn't really matter. She knew, and she could feel the disbelief and sadness from Luke, the grim certainty from Mara.

None of them were surprised when the comm officer said, sounding numb with disbelief or grief, "Admiral . . . the lead Corvette is gone."

There was a disbelieving denial from the admiral, a half-stifled "no" from Leia, and Mon Mothma simply closed her eyes, almost serene in her shock and sudden grief. Thelea found herself thinking distantly  _Father will be so disappointed, he wanted to meet Ackbar, to ask about that art . . . ._  She forced herself to fix on part of that, Father, Stent's message, and she thumbed the commlink. It must have gotten through, had to have, the Imperial fleet was their last hope now if the dark ships came for Coruscant itself.  _Stent. No, don't look for the Headhunter. He's fine. He's a good pilot, he can take care of himself. He will be fine, you will be fine, the troopers will be fine. No one you're responsible for is going to die today._

_No one else._

There was only a burst of static shrieks again, and the protocol droid said, "Oh! Oh, Mistress Leia! Mistress Thelea!"

Organa Solo was turning to wave him off , but Thelea seized on the distraction. "You have something, dro–Threepio?"

"I believe I have isolated the frequencies being used for communication, Mistress Thelea," Threepio said, apparently oblivious to the sudden somber mood. "I am afraid they are not a language or code used by any known species, but I can now differentiate them and with some time–"

"Can you identify languages or signals that would broadcast on conflicting frequencies?" She very much hoped his programming didn't consider interruption rude. "Something where the wavelengths would directly interfere with the alien transmissions?"

"Oh, that would be very simple," Threepio said with what in a living being would have been completely inappropriate cheer. "I am as I mentioned fluent in six million–"

"Find ones that will directly interfere with the alien transmission, at the high and low ends of their frequency," she said, "anything that will cause dead spots or break the transmission somehow if we broadcast it over their transmissions. Tell comm/scan, either find it in the data banks or use your own memory. Any sounds or phrases or words you can think of just so long as the language is on a conflicting wavelength with theirs!"

Leia had been listening, even though her eyes were shadowed and Thelea thought she was holding back tears. "Do it, Threepio. We may not have much time."

"Of course, Mistress Leia," and then the droid seemed to catch himself. "Of course, I am quite sorry that Admiral Ackbar–"

"Please hurry," Leia said, and the droid, for once, stopped talking, save for an "Oh, dear" as he turned and made his awkward way to the comm/scan station and the stunned controller there. Leia looked to Thelea. "Do you think that's going to make any difference now?"

"If it buys us time . . . if Stent's message really got through, and there's anyone who can get here in time." Thelea tried not to think what would happen if the answer to either of those was no. The other woman didn't flinch or look away, and Thelea had some inkling of how a princess had become a revolutionary leader everyone respected. Organa Solo was many things, but afraid in the face of death wasn't one of them. "I hadn't asked," she said carefully, "it didn't seem appropriate, but . . . your children are safely away?"

Leia blinked, but the flicker of suspicion and old anger was brief. "Han and my aide Winter took them. I don't know where," there was that old defensiveness, "but after Yag'Dhul we thought it would be best to send them somewhere the Empire wouldn't find them. Han was going to come back as soon as they were secure. He might even be on his way now."

"Good. I mean, good they're not here," Thelea said. "I hope there's someplace safe from the dark ships left. If they jumped to the Core now . . . ." She shook herself firmly. "They can't have the numbers for a galaxy-wide attack. This has to be them taking advantage of our-the Empire's–victory. This can't be a full-scale campaign."

"They must have assumed you made us an easy target," Leia said, but the righteous anger seemed strangely pro forma.

"This is exactly the sort of thing my father wanted to avoid," Thele said.  _Damn Palpatine. Damn Vader. Damn stupid petty politicians on all sides who'd rather fight among themselves until people had no choice except revolting._ "We were just too late."

"We have the broadcast ready," the comm officer said, with Threepio leaning in that awkward emulation of human posture over his shoulder. "Admiral Drayson, should we–"

"Anything at this point!" Drayson snapped, and Thelea flinched. She knew the brittle edge to his voice–with Ackbar gone, bel Iblis gone, the bold commanders were lost and Drayson, a man her father had charitably called 'conventional' was now left with an unconventional situation and no one above him. "If there are cloaked ships it might at least give the Golans something to shoot at, or help our fighters target their drones."

The comm officer nodded, and glanced up at Threepio. "When you're ready."

"Thank you, lieutenant," the droid said primly, and turned its head so its vocal slot was pointed toward the microphone. Thelea wasn't sure what she'd expected, but the cacophany of multiple languages was about as chaotic as she'd thought it would be. Besides the shill whistle that had to be some sort of avian, there was a near-subsonic rumble that set her teeth on edge, so low she suspected the humans in the room couldn't hear it. She didn't know what kind of creature used that method of communication, and didn't really want to find out.

The sensor station officer sat up straight. "Admiral, we're showing a new group of signals! Ships in the atmosphere, beneath the planetary shield."

Luke gave a low whistle, and Mara looked unnervingly serious. "I guess the analysis thing really does run in your family."

"So does sometimes hating when you're right," Thelea admitted. The sensor scan was showing a dozen small threat-red blips, all beneath the shield, all suddenly visible.

Including the two several kilometers above the old Palace, where they were all standing.

"Surface batteries are to target those ships and fire," Drayson said, sounding if anything relieved he had a target to shoot at, even if it was far closer than he'd liked. "Comm/scan, if you can get a clear transmission, send those language frequencies to the defense ships, any that can still receive. Give them a fighting chance." Somewhere outside, on the palace defense platforms, the dull thud of ground-based turbolasers began vibrating through the building. The threat icons began to swerve, accelerating, and she wasn't really surprised to see their altitude numbers begin to drop.

_And with tall buildings like these, with so many people, how can you possibly evacuate everyone low enough to be safe?_  Stent had been right to dislike the heights here, and she made a mental note to tell him so. If he was still alive.

_Stop it! You'd know._

_How? More to the point, why?_

She shoved the thought aside, even as she felt the tentative reassurance from Luke. Either he'd misread her sudden distress as concern about the situation or worse, he'd overheard her thoughts. Was he that strong? She didn't want to know at the moment. "I'm all right," she said aloud.

"I know," Skywalker said with that distressing equanimity. "We have an advantage now. We can use it."

"Sometimes that naive Jedi thing is just not appropriate, farmboy," and Mara's biting tone sounded suspiciously staged again. That need to take the edge off tension, or bring the Jedi down a peg, either way it was strangely reassuring.

Thelea wished the tactical display would come back up. Were the enemy ships closing on the planet? Were the fighters or Corvette retreating to a defensive orbit? Were any of them left? Lack of information was worse than bad certainties would be.

Mon Mothma, who had seemed for a moment to be a species of statue, spoke quietly. "We must evacuate all non-essential personnel to the lower levels. That includes Councilors and staff."

"Do you think that's going to do any good?" Drayson said. "They're already close enough–"

"They will target vital installations and the upper levels first," the Chief Councilor interrupted him, not sternly. "Anyone still in the main public floors must be evacuated." She turned, looking at Thelea. "I would suggest, Commander–"

Thelea was already shaking her head. "I hope you were going to finish that with a request I stay here, Chief Councilor. I am not hiding. I was sent her to negotiate and convince the New Republic of the real danger in the galaxy, and now that danger's here. I am not abandoning you to it."

Mon Mothma had clearly been about to suggest just that, but after a pause, she nodded. "If you insist. Admiral, have any of the ships under the shield been destroyed?" The grim look on Drayson's face was answer enough. "Councilors, Commander Skywalker–"

"Admiral!" Another interruption, this one almost incredulous. "Councilor Mothma! We have incoming ships in sector two-six!"

"More of these dark ships?" Drayson sounded far too on edge, as if one more bit of bad news would be the breaking point, and on some level, Thelea couldn't blame him.

"No, sir," and comm/scan sounded torn between relief, alarm, and outright incredulity. "There's a lot of interference, but–they look like Star Destroyers!"

"On the main display," Drayson ordered, and the readout came up even as Thelea felt an immense surge of relief and a presence touched her mind, one just as relieved to find her alive and unharmed thus far.  _We're here, Master_ , and she felt Aleishia's wordless reply, an echo of the sentiment. Beside her Luke's eyes widened and she knew he'd felt it, the presence of another Force user nearby and reaching out for them. Aleishia's response to the tentative probe felt almost amused. Thelea saw the seven Destroyers in attack formation dropping out of hyperspace and knew which was at the point, even before the comm/scan officer said, his tone now open disbelief:

"It's the Imperial fleet! That's the  _Chimaera!_ "


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought things were looking up...

 

Rurik stared at the starlines and focused on the countdown that Sosabow was calling out at thirty-second intervals. The  _Defiance,_ along with  _Chimaera, Judicator, Relentless, Stormhawk, Gorgon_ and  _Manticore_ , was minutes out from Coruscant. What they were leaping into, he didn't know, other than they were under orders to push the stardrive to its operational maximums to get there as soon as they possibly could.  _Defiance_  at least was in as optimal condition as she was ever likely to be, and the  _Gorgon_  and  _Manticore_ were similarly intact, having suffered only cosmetic damage as the reserve fleet at Yag'Dhul. The four main battle fleet ships, on the other hand . . . .

Rurik shook his head. Not his place to question the Admiral's judgement. Not his place at all. If Thrawn thought the  _Chimaera_  and the others were adequately repaired, who was he to argue?  _Defiance_ was battle-ready, and his responsibility began and ended there. He did not have time to wonder about the condition of other ships, or details of their mission beyond what he had been told.

Or the fact that the jump was taking him, if the Admiral could be believed, ever closer to Thelea. He tried to banish the look he'd seen on her face just before the holonet transmission ended, the most open expression he could ever recall her having other than anger mingled with fear, or that moment on Telamara–

He stopped that thought, too. Whatever that had meant to him, whatever else had happened, it clearly wasn't the same priority for her. She'd chosen her place, and it was with her father and with the Jedi Aleishia. Right now, his interest in her was strictly as a fellow Imperial he was going to help.

Help against what, he didn't know, beyond the dark ships. That seemed absurd-none had ever penetrated even deep into the mid-Rim, never mind the Core worlds. But then again, taking a stronghold like Coruscant would make a bold claim about their power, not to mention force the Imperial fleet to turn its focus ever inward and leave Wild Space and the Outer Rim at the mercy of any invasion force that came along.

Still . . . could anything that hastened the fall of the Republic be entirely bad?

"Two minutes to reversion, Captain." Sosabow was watching the tactical station.

"Very well." Rurik fought down a very unprofessional surge of anticipation. Thelea? The battle? Battle nerves, he decided firmly, that and the hold-over sense of rushing into combat alone. He knew the crews were already in their fighters, waiting, and part of him still ached for the simplicity of a TIE cockpit and just his life on the line, facing down enemies man to man (or man to whatever was in the dark ships' fighters.) Having the massive destructive power of the  _Defiance_  at his fingertips and her crew a finely tuned instrument ready to strike was almost as exhilarating, but it also means more than thirty thousand lives besides his own he needed to consider before he made any decisions. He'd thought that was getting easier the longer he wore the captain's rank plates.

Days like today, it didn't seem like he'd made any progress at all.

"Thirty seconds." Sosabow's voice was confident, calm, a far cry from their first encounter with the dark ships over a year ago.

"Battle stations. Shields at full as soon as we complete reversion. Stand by to launch first fighter wing."His own voice was steady, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back.

Sosabow gave a brief nod. "Reversion in three . . . two . . . now."

Outside the mottled blue of hyperspace turned to starlines, and on the tactical readout Rurik saw  _Defiance_  in position,  _Chimaera_ to her starboard,  _Relentless_  above and forward in the staggered battle line. The display also flared in a patterning of red and his eyes narrowed as he counted enemy ships. The yellow neutral of the Rebel ships was a much smaller proportion of the readout. A single green dot spun and dove through the swarms of tiny hostile markers, and for an instant Rurik felt a flare of hope, but even without checking its I.D. something about the flight pattern told him it wasn't Thelea flying the Headhunter. "Any new orders from  _Chimaera?_ " was all he asked aloud.

There was too long a pause.

Rurik turned. "Comm/Scan, even if there isn't a message, I expect a response."

"Captain," and already he didn't like the lieutenant's tone, "I'm trying to raise  _Chimaera,_ but she's not responding, not even an acknowledgment."

Rurik felt the pricklings of a bad feeling starting. "Try again. Tag it priority."

"Still nothing, sir. I don't think they're receiving." The lieutenant didn't sound quite as uncertain, but he still was shaking his head.

"Contact  _Judicator_  and see if you can raise her." Captain Brandeis could say what he liked about a breach of protocol, but no contact from the command ship was not something Rurik was going to let slide without question.

Sosabow's expression was guarded, but worried. "You think she's hit, sir?"

Rurik controlled an unprofessional shrug, but only barely. "I can't see how. There's no one near us."

"It's the others, sir," Sosabow pointed out. "For all we know they have invisible mines."

"Let's not go borrowing trouble when we get it for free, Commander," Rurik sighed, wishing Sosabow's theory didn't sound more than halfway plausible.

"I have Captain Brandei for you, sir." Rurik turned before Comm/Scan had even finished speaking and was confronted with a three-quarter holo of the  _Judicator'_ s captain.

Before he could say anything, the Death Squadron veteran said, "You can't raise her, either?"

"No, sir," Rurik said. "And apparently it's not our comm system malfunctioning."

"You're closest, Caelin, continue trying to contact her," Brandei said, and Rurik wondered if Dorja or the other captains would have taken the assumption of authority quite so readily. "The rest of the fleet will proceed per our previous orders." He grimaced, and it was oddly reassuring to see the open concern. Almost as if Brandei thought of him as a real captain, too. "The Admiral will think of something if  _Chimaera's_ comm is damaged."

"He usually does, Captain." But a look at the increasingly-pinched expression on the comm/scan crewer's face made Rurik question his own words. Not aloud, of course. "We'll continue attempting to raise her, Captain, and apprise you if the situation changes."

Brandei nodded, and the holo flickered with a brief flare of static. "Good luck, Captain Caelin."

"And to you, Captain Brandei." The holo flared again and the  _Judicator_ 's captain vanished. Rurik turned back to the comm station. "Keep trying to raise the  _Chimaera_. Any channel, highest priority." The crewer nodded, and Rurik tired to focus on tactical, on the sudden rearranging of the dark ships as the Star Destroyers closed on their position and began disgorging their TIE fighters. But even as he ordered his own squadrons out of their bays and the forward batteries began covering fire, he couldn't help staring at the image of the  _Chimaera_ , now drifting visibly off what should have been her planned vector towards the enemy.  _The Admiral will think of something_ , but even in his own mind, perhaps inevitably given their recent interactions, it sounded more hollow by the minute.

Pellaeon drew in a deep breath and willed the readouts and voices of his crew to change instead of plunging him deeper into a too-familiar nightmare. His ship's sublight engines were sluggish, her helm resisting every command to respond. They were already off their intended course by several degrees and the shields were at seventy percent. Holding, but at seventy percent. From what Thrawn had told him, that would not be enough for very long against this opponent.

_Thrawn_  . . . . The Admiral was watching the tactical readouts and listening to the diagnostics, too. His expression was impassive as (almost) always, but Pellaeon had the terrible grim sense he was waiting. Waiting for an explanation.

At the moment, Pellaeon didn't have one.

Aleishia was at the viewport, ignoring the diagnostics. Instead of her usual serene detachment, Pellaeon could see she was tense, her eyes moving rapidly even if she couldn't possibly see any details of the distant engagement. Her arms were crossed over her chest, locked tight, and her lips pressed thin. She didn't seem concerned about their current situation, if she was aware of it at all.

"Report, Captain." Thrawn's voice broke into his thoughts, and by his tone, that had been his intent. The Admiral didn't need a report. He could see for himself.

"There appears to have been a major systems feedback on reverse from hyperspace." He was prevaricating, he knew it, and more to the point, the Admiral knew it. "It is currently affecting our sublight engines, maneuvering and stability thrusters, and the shields."

"I am aware of that, Captain," and Thrawn's calm, even tones were worse than anger. "What is the status of the automated repair systems?"

That was the part Pellaeon did not want to answer. Which was, of course, why he absolutely had to. "Diagnostics are indeterminate, sir. The repair systems are operational, but at this time no estimate until full shields or helm is restored." Thrawn didn't reply, and Pellaeon swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. "It appears the systems were still damaged after Yag'Dhul. The repairs may have been inadequate, or perhaps the stress from pushing the hyperdrive to maximum created feedback through the sublight system, but until the diagnostics can pinpoint the nature and extent of the malfunctions–"

"Captain." Thrawn's voice was as calm as always, and Pellaeon realized he'd forgotten how reassuring that could be. He turned, and the Admiral was regarding him steadily, the glowing red eyes unblinking. "Is my flagship ready?"

Pellaeon desperately wanted to say yes. He wanted to give the formal, proper response that the  _Chimaera_  was fully at the Admiral's command. He wanted to . . . but if there was one thing the Admiral tolerated even less than errors it was blatant lying. "No, Admiral. We are already out of battle formation by fifteen degrees. With no estimate on damage and repairs it's impossible to say how long until we're capable of maneuvering, never mind engaging in combat. At the moment even the comms are out." He could feel the heat rising in his face, the abject shame of failing the Admiral in what should be a critical moment.

"And the hyperdrive?"

Pellaeon felt a chill down his back. "Operational, sir, though we may require an emergency vector jump before calculating coordinates for a farther destination." He looked again, nervously, at their position indicator.

Thrawn, for his part, only nodded. "Very well. Captain, you will take the  _Chimaera_  to Bilbringi, best possible speed." Pellaeon nearly gawped. Was Thrawn actually going to retreat? "Which of the other Star Destroyers is now closest?"

Pellaeon was momently grateful that the display still functioned at least that far. "The  _Defiance_ , sir."

Something flickered, briefly, across Thrawn's expression. But then he nodded. "So be it. Prepare my shuttle and activate the data storage droid,. I will need access to my records while aboard  _Defiance_  including security codes they do not currently possess. If comm systems are restored quickly, inform Captain Caelin I am transferring my flag to his vessel. I will contact him from the shuttle as soon as I am clear. As soon as my shuttle is clear, Captain, jump to hyperspace when you have a safe vector."

"Grand Admiral, I–" Pellaeon stopped himself. Humiliation warred with the urge to protest that the  _Chimaera_  could still fill her role. Shame rose in his throat, hot and bitter. "Yes, Grand Admiral."

For a moment, Thrawn looked puzzled. Then that faintly-amused smile curved his lips. "Have no fear, Captain. I am not abandoning you permanently. But in her current condition,  _Chimaera_ must withdraw, and I cannot leave the battle line now. Once repairs are complete, I will transfer my flag back to my chosen flagship. For now I must conduct this most important battle in person. Take no personal offense, against yourself or your crew, and be assured I shall return."

Pellaeon wished he didn't look as grateful as he knew he did. "Of course, sir."

Thrawn nodded. "Hold position until my shuttle is clear, and then proceed as ordered to Bilbringi. Master Aleishia, you will accompany me to the  _Defiance._ "

For a moment that felt longer than it likely was, the Jedi did not turn away from the viewport. "I will bring Thelea's fighter," she finally said, in a strange, quiet tone. "As soon as possible I will take it and join her on Coruscant."

"Can you sense her now?" If there was any paternal concern in his voice, Thrawn hid it well.

"She is concerned. Not for herself, but for her mission, the Rebels,for–" Her lip quirked up slightly. "Commander Kres'ten'tarthi is engaged in the space battle."

"Unsurprising. He knows where his talents lie." Thrawn sounded studiously neutral. "If you can, reassure her that we are coming."

"She knows," and the Jedi's voice was soft. "We had best go, Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Time passes."

"Of course." Thrawn's brow furrowed, but he did nod to Pellaeon and turn, headed for the turbolift.

Once again Pellaeon found himself wishing for something, anything, to say, but there was nothing. Aleishia started to follow Thrawn, but she paused, and her eyes were darker and wider than the Captain ever remembered seeing in a human before.

She reached out and touched his hand. "Good-bye, Captain Pellaeon." Her fingers were dry and cool. "May the Force be with you."

Pellaeon felt a shiver run down his spine. "I hadn't thought anyone would ever say that to me again." He hesitated, but either Thrawn was not listening, or more likely, he knew but did not precisely disapprove. "And may it be with you as well, Master Aleishia."

She didn't reply, but something in her smile carried him back years, to the height of the Clone Wars, when a Jedi on his bridge didn't feel like a strange sort of crime. Then she turned, her robes swirling so he caught a flash of that white beneath, and she followed Thrawn off the bridge. Pellaeon stared after them for a long moment, and despite the circumstances he could not help noticing that while Thrawn had assured him he would return and he believed the Admiral wholeheartedly, all Aleishia had said was good-bye.

Thelea braced herself, she hoped not obviously, against the edge of the tactical display console, as another impact shook the building.  _Concentrate_ , she told herself.  _Be mindful of your surroundings, of the dangers, and of your allies._  Being trapped here with no ship, no weapons other than her lightsabers, what else was there to do?

Besides, of course, watch the tactical display and second-guess her insane father, as usual.

"The  _Chimaera_  is drifting, Admiral, that's all I can tell," the tactical officer was saying. "The other Destroyers appear unimpeded, but she's not engaging the enemy. If anything I'd say she's trying to maneuver for a jump."

"Running? That doesn't sound like Thrawn." Drayson blinked, and glanced uneasily at Thelea. "I didn't mean–"

"To speak accurately? I know my father, Admiral, and you're right, running and abandoning his fleet isn't his style.  _Chimaera_ must be disabled."  _Probably still belongs in the shipyards after Yag'Dhul,_ but she didn't say that out loud. "But without him–"

"You and I of everyone here know Thrawn's not running." Mara Jade had, as far as Thelea could tell, about as much right to be in here as the Imperials did, but no one seemed willing to say so, at least not as long as Luke Skywalker was nearby. "On the other hand, guessing what he  _is_  doing–"

"Looks like  _Chimaera's_ going to light speed," tactical said. "She launched something-no, two somethings–before she jumped." On the display, one of the dart-shaped Destroyers flickered and vanished, just as the real ship would have flashed in pseudomotion and disappeared into the safety of hyperspace. Two minuscule shapes moved away from where she'd been–no, six, two larger and four so small they had briefly vanished in the shadow of the shape they were escorting.

"A shuttle," Thelea said. "A shuttle with a fighter escort. Father's transferring his flag. If the  _Chimaera_  can't fight he won't risk her, but he won't leave the others. Captain Pellaeon wouldn't have liked it, and he'd have insisted on the fighters."

"The other ship is making for sector 1," Drayson said. "The profile looks like–that's an A-wing." He gave Thelea a very sidelong look.

_Master?_  She closed her eyes, and had an impression of space around her, the familiar, comforting confines of the A-wing's cockpit. "My Master, in my fighter. She must think I'll want it. She'll be coming this way, then, not going with Father."

The flare of excitement from Skywalker, far out of keeping with the situation, was impossible to miss. All he said aloud, though, was "We need all the help we can get."

"True." But something rubbed Thelea's senses the wrong way, like an animal's hair brushed backwards. Aleishia wasn't 'answering', though they'd always been capable of communication even at this distance. There was nothing now, though, but a strange serenity, almost detachment, and a gentle brushing aside of Thelea's inquiries. "I just hope she makes it through. The dark fighters might be able to phase through shields, but I can safely say my fighter can't."

"If it's necessary, if possible, we can lower the shield long enough to let her in." Drayson didn't sound confident, and the building shuddered again, from the defensive turbolasers or weapons hits she didn't know. "I'm not sure how much help one more fighter can be."

Thelea shivered. "I think she's more worried about what we'll need on the ground."

Mon Mothma, to her credit, was watching the tactical display and the defensive batteries' efforts with perfectly composed features. Thelea was beginning to understand just how the Rebel leader had withstood so many years of revolution and living on the run. "And the remaining Destroyers?"

"Moving to engage the dark ships and reinforce our remaining Corvettes." The tac officer, to his credit, didn't let any hint of the absurdity into his voice. Not only the thought of Imperial Destroyers defending Rebel ships, but the notion that they would simply be reinforcing the tiny blockade runners, any one of which could fit in one of the Destroyer's hangars.

The building shuddered again. "Can you identify which Destroyer my father's transferred to?" Thelea felt that tingling pressure when the Force was nagging at her again, and she tried not to listen. For some reason, this one felt ominous.

"It's hard to get a clean I.D. at this range, but I think–ident code is reading as the  _Defiance._ "

_Well, of course. How else would my day go?_ "As long as he's back aboard something bigger than a shuttle." It sounded tetchier than she intended.

"If he's half as good as he's scared us into believing he is, he'll be fine," Luke said, and she knew he was half-teasing, half sincerely reassuring.

"At least half." She still wasn't sure about Jade.

There was another blast from somewhere outside, and the displays dissolved into a momentary cloud of static. When they resolved again, they were clouded and jerking in a very disconcerting way. "That looks like they took out one of the relay satellites," Organa Solo said, grim but with no trace of concern allowed in her voice. In spite of herself, Thelea was beginning to feel at home. The Rebels could teach some of the Imperials about maintaining proper decorum in high-stress situations.

"We're getting a significant delay on the outer feed, so I suspect you're right, Councilor," Drayson said. "Once again, I would strongly advise that Councilors and other . . . ." He glanced at Thelea, and coughed a bit. "Non-essential personnel evacuate to the lower levels."

"For myself, I can be of more use here, especially if my father manages to establish communication between us and the fleet," Thelea said. "However . . . High Councilor,  _I_ would strongly advise you follow Admiral Drayson's suggestion. You cannot be spared and if the anti-assault batteries are compromised or one of the ships break through–"

"Thank you for your concern, Admiral, Commander," Mon Mothma interrupted. "However, I will not withdraw until the battle's decided." She glanced sideways at Thelea. "Assuming the outcome is in . . . our favor, I assume the Grand Admiral will wish to speak with me."

"No doubt." Thelea was torn between a desire to witness that conversation and wondering if they'd all be alive to see it. "However he would very much prefer you be alive to have it."

"So do I," and for the first time Thelea saw what she thought might be a hint of humor. "I resigned myself to danger a long time ago, when I publically denounced the Empire."

"I begin to understand how you won at Endor," Thelea said. "Common sense and tactical retreats aren't a Rebel specialty, are they?"

To her surprise, Mon Mothma's smile was downright amused. "It never seemed to be the Empire's either, until recently."

Thelea wasn't entirely sure that was a compliment. "Maybe we just kept cancelling each other out." She felt another, different, vibration, through the floor, and this one was accompanied by a familiar, unwelcome shiver down her spine even before the alarm klaxons began sounding with a new, higher, more urgent tone.

"The palace batteries are down on the south tower," the tactical officer said, shouted, really, in a tone Thelea abstractly noticed her father would find unacceptable regardless of the situation. "We've lost contact but before the sensors failed, there was a reading–it might have been alien life signs–"

There was a massive explosion somewhere above.

Thelea jabbed for her comlink, hoping against reason that she wouldn't hear the squawk of jamming. Miraculously she had a clear signal. "Squad commander, call anyone still on the shuttle off, proceed to the south tower and coordinate with Re–palace security, follow their orders and stop any enemy landing party, do you copy those orders?" She heard what might have been an acknowledgment before a metallic shriek cut them off again, and she bit off the urge to curse.

"Do you think even stormtroopers will slow them down?" Mara had abandoned the sardonic tone completely. "Have you seen whatever they are on the ground before?"

Thelea closed her eyes. _The caverns on Telamara. The lightsaber._ "Only once up close, and a whole garrison had trouble then." She looked at Mara. "This was the Imperial Palace. There have to be shelters and exit tunnels, ones the Reb-current occupants might not have found. And you'd know them, wouldn't you?"

The former Emperor's Hand's green eyes widened briefly in understanding, and she nodded. "And at least two secret hangars. There are probably ways into the underlevels even Vader probably didn't know."

Thelea turned to Drayson again. "Admiral, we can't do any more good from here and by now the obvious escape routes may not be safe. We have to withdraw. If you have a secure evacuation route, I suggest you, your officers, and the Councilors take it. If it's been compromised, Jade will know a way around."

"What about you?" Strange, she'd barely met him, and somehow she wasn't surprised it was Skywalker who noticed her choice of pronouns.

When Thelea turned, she found it distressingly difficult to meet that open gaze. "My troopers are on the roof. I need to join them."

For a minute, Luke didn't say anything. Then he said what she probably should have expected. "Okay. Then I'm coming with you."

"That isn't necessary," and Thelea tried to fight off the uncanny feeling of being prodded again. It wasn't him, or at least she didn't think so. More of those 'instincts' she was supposed to obey, probably.  _When Master Aleishia gets down here, we can add that to the list of things I need to talk about._

"Maybe not. But in my experience, having backup doesn't hurt." There was something self-deprecating in the crooked smile. For some reason, Organa Solo had a similar look on her face.

"And I've started to appreciate the concept myself recently." Somehow she wasn't surprised at Jade, either. "I can give Drayson the tunnel entry location, but believe me, Farmboy here needs supervision. And I suspect," and she gave Thelea a once-over that could have been offensive if Thelea couldn't sense the thought behind it, "you're not any better about this hero business."

"It's an inherited trait." She'd explain the Chiss concept of leading from the front later. "Talk to Drayson and let's go, then." Jade gave a brisk nod and no argument, turning on her heel. Thelea looked at Organa Solo, whose arms were still folded, but she would have sworn something had softened in the human woman's expression. "Councilor–"

"We've had experience fleeing before," Organa Solo interrupted her. "We'll be all right."

"I was only going to say," and Thelea patted herself on the back for the even tone, "make  _sure_  Mon Mothma goes. I recognize the 'leader refusing to leave the troops' tendencies from experience. And if things . . . if it goes badly here, for us, for the fleet, go to Yag'Dhul and Admiral Niriz. Tell him my father and I want our forces allied. He'll listen to you and he has more resources than even the main fleet knows."

Leia's eyes narrowed, but she nodded. "If Coruscant falls and your fleet with it, there's not going to be much left to work with." And then she gave a tight smile. "It won't be the first time working like that, either."

"I hope it doesn't come to that, but when has anything in this galaxy ever gone to plan?" She saw Mara coming back, with Drayson's team already locking down computers and mercifully intent on evacuating, and she looked at Luke. "Ready?"

"Are we ever?"

It was strange, but kind of nice, to be included in that 'we', especially considering the circumstances. Thelea unhooked her lightsaber from her belt, the handle heavy and comforting in her grip. "I assume you know where the south tower batteries are positioned? I'd be guessing."

Mara sighed. "If that's a suggestion, then yes, I know a fast route."

"Not everything I say is a subtle hint leading the person I'm speaking to toward the answer I want," Thelea said, heading for the door. "I'm not that much like my father."

The corridors already seemed deserted, though that was only somewhat reassuring–apparently most of the Senate staff and military personnel were quicker to read the writing on the wall than the command staff. Thelea tried to ignore the eerie feeling of being alone in such a vast building, especially one that had always been intimidating even when it wasn't an enemy capital. Yet again she could hear her Master's words,  _"Be mindful_." Mindful of what? Out of so many things going wrong, what mattered?

Mara lead them across the grand corridor, where Thelea noted the trees that had once lined it had been ripped out. That seemed petty, even for the Rebels, but she ignored it. "We can take a back stair," Jade was saying, "it's a little farther but we're not likely to–"

Thelea wished these forewarnings would come just a bit faster as a familiar, dreading chill clenched in her gut. Too familiar, even before she heard the whispering, scabbering sounds she knew, and more mechanical noises she had a bad feeling were new enemy technology, probably no more pleasant than anything else she'd encountered. But most of all the dread was accompanied by a familiar but utterly  _alien_  mind, alien in every important sense even if she still half-thought he was a human.

The three of them staggered to a halt as a door, presumably sealed by the evacuating palace staff, blasted inward, and Thelea had the uncanny experience of feeling Force-sensitive minds other than her own and her Master's ( _and some dim half-remembered mind even warmer and closer than Aleishia's, the one who called out to her only in her sleep now_ ) reaching out and pushing away instinctively at the flying debris. Even before it had settled Thelea was moving, her finger touching the stud of her lightsaber. There was a flare of surprised and even what she thought was alarm but she ignored it, swinging the crimson blade up into an at-ready position.

The cloaked figure moved forward in that strange, half-mechanical stride, and she saw the chalk-white skin and those piercing wire leads jabbing into it she could still recall from Telamara. The creature regarded her with the same lifeless stare as he had then, but this time as the green blade ignited, there was no question.

"The machine says kill."


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't want to hear about it. This one was not easy to write. Excuses include needing a new computer, a fiction contest with a deadline, two back to back anthology deadlines, a dead dog (she was old, it was not unexpected, but it was still not fun) and general sloth. In the 'good news' department, one of those anthologies did in fact bite, so I will in the not too distant future have another of those "things I wrote you can pay for" to point readers to! (And if the main character of that particular story seems like he might have been written with a specific actor in mind, say a specific actor who quite recently voiced a specific animated Star Wars character who might appear in his Legends guise in this very fic...well, you wouldn't be wrong.)
> 
> This chapter is certified 100% space-whale free. However it also is another of Those Chapters. IOW, character death ahead. You've been warned.

 

Rurik kept his eyes fixed hard on the tactical readout. It was disconcerting to hang here, with the ventral shields lowered for the heart-stopping minutes required to take the shuttle aboard, all while the main line reached the enemy, and it would have been no matter who the shuttle's passenger was. They appeared to have escaped notice by the enemy, but Rurik was not counting them lucky just yet. He watched the docking monitor, and as soon as the shuttle and its lone passenger had passed through the docking-bay doors he ordered full shields again, and a return to what should have been their position in the line of battle.

It was more reassuring, he suspected, than what Sosabow was doing. He'd paced the length of the crew pit three times, triple-checking each station, his jaw set so tensely Rurik could practically hear his first officer's teeth grinding. "At ease, Commander. He's not coming aboard for an inspection tour."

"No, he's coming to direct a battle using us as the flagship," Sosabow retorted. "That's worse. Sir."

"That you do have to remember," Rurik said, "mind the ranks. I've been informed I may at times be more casual than is appropriate in certain situations."

"Yes, Captain." Sosabow straightened so quickly it took an effort for Rurik not to laugh.

Then the turbolift alert told him there was suddenly nothing to laugh about. He could practically feel the tension on the bridge rise in ways he normally associated with much more intense combat. He still gave himself a count of three before turning from the tactical station. Grand Admiral Thrawn was walking down the bridge, and while the glowing eyes made it hard to tell, Rurik was sure he was taking in all the crew stations, noting who was attending to their duty and who was distracted by his arrival, officer and enlisted alike. Rurik found himself checking, too, and was relieved to note the former category outweighed the latter by a considerable margin.

Thrawn reached the command deck and stopped. "Captain Caelin."

"Welcome aboard the  _Defiance_ , Grand Admiral." If Thrawn was going to play the cold professional, Rurik could match it. "In absence of other orders we are proceeding to our original position in the battle line."

"Excellent." Thrawn studied the tactical displays briefly, and gave a single tight nod before turning back to Rurik and Sosabow, who seemed to be frozen into some species of statue. "Is my flagship ready, Captain?"

"The  _Defiance_ is fully at your command, Admiral." Rurik glanced at Sosabow, who barely blinked. "As you were, Commander."

His first officer jumped, and Rurik was torn between wanting to laugh and roll his eyes. Fortunately he did neither. "Yes, Captain!" Sosabow managed somehow not to click his heels, but his walk back to his usual station nearer the crew pit looked outright parade-ground correct.

Rurik tried not to sigh, but something in Thrawn's expression suggested the exasperation and embarrassment were not unnoticed. "Orders, Admiral?"

"Proceed as previously ordered for the moment," Thrawn said, his gaze fixed on the tactical readouts. "Notify the rest of the fleet of  _Defiance'_ s status as flagship. Have you launched fighters?"

"Waiting for your shuttle to be secure aboard, Admiral. Shall I order the first wings launched now?" No improvising on this one. If he was going to make any mistakes for Thrawn to criticize, he'd be doing it under orders.

"Do so." If Thrawn even remembered the tone of their last interaction, Rurik couldn't tell. He had to, but apparently compartmentalizing was another thing the Chiss did well that humans didn't. "Helm, adjust heading, place us between  _Judicator_  and  _Manticore,_ forward and superior to their position by thirty-five degrees."

"Aye, sir." Rurik didn't  _think_  the helm officer sounded more brisk and professional than usual, but he couldn't be entirely sure.

Thrawn, meanwhile, watched the tactical readout, and nodded to himself. "Captain, open a communications channel to the point corvette. Inform her commander we are here to reinforce them and suggest they withdraw to flanking positions to our main battle line. We will focus on the enemy capital ships and the remaining corvettes will cover any attempts by fighters to end run our defenses."

"Yes, sir." In spite of himself, Rurik paused. "Admiral, if I might ask a question?"

Thrawn turned, his expression once again unreadable. "You may, Captain. If it is a brief one."

"I'll try to keep it one, sir." Rurik paused just long enough to revise his tone. "We've encountered these ships before on the borders and in Wild Space. Do we have any better chance holding them off now than we did then?"

The glowing red eyes narrowed, but Rurik thought it was consideration, not annoyance. "The confrontations your ship has had provided valuable information on the enemy vessels and alternative means of tracking them. Our knowledge of their weapons capabilities may not allow us to overwhelm them yet, but we are better prepared to avoid their targeting than the Rebel ships and can extrapolate their weak points from more information. We are not, completely at their mercy. Does that reassure you, Captain?"

Oddly enough, it did. "Yes, sir." It also felt oddly warming to hear that  _Defiance_ 's own mission had contributed to that reassurance. "I'll send that message to the Rebel command ship at once, sir."

"Do so. And, Captain?"

Rurik paused, waiting for the other boot to drop. "Sir?"

Thrawn tilted his head thoughtfully. "It might be best if in communications you referred to our . . . non-hostile co-combatants as 'Alliance' ships, not Rebels. We may not wish to grant false legitimacy to their Republic pretensions, but this is not a situation in which we wish to cause offense, either."

For a moment, Rurik wasn't quite sure the Admiral was serious, but Thrawn maintained that steady gaze, without any obvious or even subtle edge of criticism. "I'll remember that, Admiral." Thrawn nodded and deliberately turned back to the tactical display, and Rurik headed for the comm station. As he went down the walkway he caught Sosabow watching him, still with that slightly wild-eyed expression. He shrugged, and when that earned him a confused look, he admitted to himself he wasn't any clear on things either. Possibly that was just a fact of life when you were Grand Admiral Thrawn's flagship.

He looked over his shoulder at the white-clad back standing before the tactical display. If it was, Rurik thought, it was a sensation he needed to adapt to quickly.

Thelea tried to steady herself and had the disconcerting sense of not one but two other Force-users at her back. She saw a flicker of green at the corner of her vision–Skywalker, his lightsaber at ready but in a defensive posture. She couldn't see Jade, but she could hear the hum of her weapon. "This thing," she said, keeping her eyes on the dark figure, "is what I encountered on Telamara. My master and . . . Mother have seen it, too. It doesn't listen to reason very well." If the dark man heard her, let alone was insulted, she couldn't tell.

"Doesn't look so scary." Someone without the Force might have mistaken Mara Jade's tone for bravado. Thelea couldn't risk a look, but she had a distinct sense it was meant to sound dismissive. Angry opponents were unstable opponents.

Too bad this one didn't seem interested in getting angry, in Thelea's experience.

There was a clattering noise she remembered all too well from Telamara. The things charging out of the darkness were made of the same dark armor as the modified human was wearing, but these appeared to be droids of some sort, with insectoid lower limbs and a curved upper torso with two oddly-shaped 'arms' that were clearly some kind of integrated weapon.

"Reminds me of the old droidekas," Mara said, still dryly clinical. "Suppose they have the shields, too?"

"The way today is going?" Thelea didn't dare take her eyes off the dark man.

"Good point." Mara turned, and whether consciously or not Luke mirrored her, so the three stood in a back-to-back triangle.

The dark man wasn't moving.  _Good. Fine. Let him wait until he's impatient and makes a mistake_. Assuming, of course, he was able to become impatient. Thelea breathed, forcing herself to stillness.  _A Jedi is not reckless. A warrior attacks or waits to parry based on the circumstances, not on their emtions._  It was nice that for once the internal voices, her Master's and her father's, were giving more or less the same advice.  _Wait. Let him come to you._

She felt Luke move the instant before he did and she moved with him as the droid-weapons opened fire. In a bizarre way it was a relief after the diplomacy and the tension.  _This_ , Thelea knew how to do.  _This_  was something she understood.

As she deflected a bolt, ducking under Mara's blade as the Force gave her a nanosecond's advance warning where it would be, she saw the dark man move. The green blade came up and Thelea parried hard. The dark man's expression didn't change, but she thought he caught himself.  _Not so defenseless now_ , and she gave what for a Chiss was a smirk. It vanished as quickly as she'd indulged herself in it as she had to spin the blade to block another shot from the droid-creatures. The movement took her around Luke's shoulder and he swapped places, his green blade interlocking with the dark man's.

Thelea wished she had time to watch. Skywalker's movements with the saber lacked a certain polish and she suspected however he had learned the Jedi arts, it hadn't been someone who focused on the form and discipline of lightsaber styles. Instead of form, he had learned function, and she had an inkling why this was the man who had defeated Darth Vader.

The droids meant she'd couldn't admire his bladework for long. "This is getting old fast," Mara said, and Thelea couldn't help a bit of admiration. Snide commentary was tricky enough when you had a cockpit and a few kilometers between you and your opponent.

"I'm open to suggestions." Thelea tried to keep her mind clear, to let the Force guide her blade, but it was impossible to maintain that kind of focus.

"Farmboy here seems to be holding down our friend," Mara said between parried blaster shots. "Think the shields on those things are lightsaber-proof?"

"Not in my experience." It wouldn't be a big jump. All she would have to do is carry herself over the nearest droid. If it was like similar battle droids she'd encountered it would take a moment to choose between targets and reacquire her, or decide to keep its focus on Mara. She liked Force-assisted leaps, all other things considered, though she'd never have said something as childish out loud. "Keep them looking this way if you can, all right?"

"Oh, sure, easy."

Thelea didn't bother responding to the sarcasm. Gathering herself, she risked one running step for momentum and leapt, twisting in the air as if she were tucking and rolling on the ground but using the Force for lift. She'd never put too much thought into how exactly this worked, but logic told her it must be somehow related to telekinesis. Instead of lifting objects, she lifted herself. And it was as close to flying without a ship as she was ever likely to be.

At the peak of her arc, she slashed down, catching the nearest droid across the top with a shower of sparks. The weapons arms flailed and she saw the dark man actually have to duck as a shot went wild. As she landed, out of reach of her target, Mara swept forward and neatly bisected it with a single stroke of the blue blade. Thelea was already turning to the other droid when she felt the warning from Luke. She couldn't turn away from the blaster bolts, but she ducked, feeling for her mother's lightsaber in its ankle holster. The gold blade ignited in time to block the swing of the dark man's saber.

"Look out!" She felt the warning in the Force as much as heard it aloud and once again she was swapping places with Skywalker. The dark man lunged for her back even as she had to spin, focusing on the droids. She heard a sharp exhalation from Mara and a rush of alarm from Luke, but she could risk looking to see how bad it was. Even as she slashed at the droid and clipped off one of the weapons arms she felt the dark man's eyes on her back, knew he was turning to try and finish the job. But the bolts were still coming and she couldn't risk turning away–

The droids were blasted backwards off the walkway with a rush of Force energy so strong Thelea was almost knocked off her feet herself. She turned, at ready again, but even as she changed her grip on her sabers, ready for a new assault, she felt the familiar presence from one direction and surprise from the other even as the word registered in her mind:

_Duck!_

Thelea had dropped flat to the deck before it occurred to her Luke and Mara might not trust a warning from a strange voice in the Force, but a quick glance told her they were down. The dark man, however, was not. He threw up a hand in a warding gesture and for the first time, Thelea thought he looked as if he were experiencing some sort of emotion. Not fear, precisely, but something akin to it. When his boots skidded backwards along the walkway she thought the resemblance to fear was suddenly very close indeed.

"Is that–is she your master?"

Thelea hadn't realized Luke had crawled closer until she heard the question practically in her ear. Turning her head, she looked down the walkway, and realized that any fear the dark man might feel was more than justified.

She had never seen Aleishia look quite so much the terrible Jedi Master. Maybe it was the stark white of her robes beneath the dark outer cloak, maybe it was how the harsh black stitches marked it as mourning and combined with her pale human skin gave her the aura of some legendary creature, a death omen. But Thelea thought it was more how calm she was. Her lightsaber was ignited and glowing in her right hand, and her left was raised, palm out. There was no tension, though–she was pushing the dark man back as if he were nothing. Her eyes were fixed, unblinking, on him, and there was a clarity Thelea had never seen in them before.

"That's her," she finally replied. "Don't ask me what she's doing, though."

The dark man must have blinked. Thelea felt the sudden rush of intensity from Aleishia, and the man's hold on the ground gave way. Scrambling to her feet, the others close behind, she reached the edge of the walkway. He was not tumbling out of control, but his descent to the lower levels of the palace grounds was clearly not by his own choosing. Thelea lost sight of him before she could see where he'd managed to land, but she had a grim suspicion it hadn't been hard enough to finish him off.  _Where's a crashing fighter when you really_ need _one?_ she thought, then she remembered where Stent was and winced.

Luke was, she realized, already up and his focus was entirely on Aleishia. Mara wasn't far behind, though Thelea noticed  _she_  still had a solid grip on her lightsaber. Aleishia, for her part, was still focused on the place where the dark man had vanished, and Thelea had an uncanny impression she was not truly seeing any of them, even when Luke drew to a halt barely a meter away.

He did at least let Thelea speak first. "Master?"

Aleishia blinked, and seemed almost surprised at their presence. Then she shook herself. "Are you all right?"

"For the moment, until that thing comes back." Thelea looked again at the drop.

Luke seemed to have reached the limits of his politeness. "You're a Jedi Master?" He sounded somewhere between hopeful and suspicious. Of course if he'd recently had contact with the C'baoth clone, Thelea considered, the latter might be the wise course.

Aleishia looked at him for a long moment, and her expression softened just a touch, as if she were coming back from someplace far away. "Master? Not truly. Only Aleishia. You must be Luke Skywalker." There was something that might have been amusement in her eyes, but Thelea had the eerie sense it was the ghost of the emotion. "I have heard a great deal about you."

"I haven't heard nearly enough about you," Luke said. Thelea caught the look in Mara's green eyes, and grimaced in return. Luke almost sounded as if he's forgotten about their dealing with an invasion. "I have so many questions–"

"Which can wait for another time," Aleishia interrupted, not unkindly, but in a tone that somehow brooked no disagreement. "There are more of those droids, and  _he_  isn't dead. Not yet." She looked over the edge. "This time, I intend to finish it. You three–I think I destroyed the droids still between here and the landing platform, but there are more that continued to the lower levels of the palace. You need to stop them, and I will deal with . . . him."

"Master, I'm coming with you!" It was out before Thelea could stop herself and she was instantly ashamed of how childish it sounded.  _Don't leave me behind_  . . . .

Something in Aleishia's expression said she understood. "No. This is something I must do myself. Ask your father later. He was there the first time and he will know why."

"But–" Thelea stopped herself. "Yes, Master."

Aleishia nodded. Luke, meanwhile, looked almost as torn as Thelea felt. "Are you sure? Only . . . my first master went off to face someone alone. I don't think I could have helped, but . . . ."

Aleishia shook her head. "This is personal." Then she paused, just a moment. "Who was your master? I left the Order before the purges, and I never knew . . . well, I knew the Jedi were gone. But not who might have survived besides me."

Luke looked appropriately somber, and Thelea bit back any comment on the Empire's view of those Jedi. Her father in particular had his opinions, but that for him to argue with Aleishia, not to start a fight now. "My first teacher was Ben Kenobi–Obi-Wan, he called himself Ben when he was hiding on Tatooine. He was killed by–well, he died on the first Death Star. Then I trained with Master Yoda on the planet where he hid from the Empire. He died just before Endor." Luke must have understood the way Aleishia closed her eyes, and the edge to her smile.

"I remember Obi-Wan as another child in the creche," she said. "And somehow I'm not surprised Master Yoda survived."

"You knew him?" In some ways, Thelea almost envied how in awe Luke sounded.

Aleishia almost, but not quite, laughed. "Master Yoda taught all of us, at one point or another, generations of Jedi. 'Younglings,' he called us. He said he preferred children's minds, that we were more open to the Force when we were little. I think he just liked teaching us as children because we were his height." Something in her eyes seemed shadowed. "I know I was a great disappointment to him. I'm sorry I never had the chance to apologize. Especially now." She looked back over the edge. "We don't have time for my regrets now. Go, quickly, before any of those droids get farther into the building."

Thelea felt as reluctant as Luke looked, but nodded. "Master, are you  _sure–"_

"Don't worry about me, Thelea." Aleishia spoke Cheunh, and that alone was enough to startle Thelea to silence. "Everything will be fine. This time, I promise."

Something was wrong with that, but Mara and Luke were already headed for the blasted-open stairwell, and Aleishia had turned purposely away. Thelea hesitated a second longer, then shook herself. Her Master had given her an order and it was true, if any of those droids reached a still-occupied area, or if any had programming that would allow them to hack into the palace's computer systems . . . plus she hadn't asked and Aleishia had not said if she'd encountered any of the stormtroopers who were supposed to be assisting the palace troops.

Still . . . as she reached the stairs, she took a last look over her shoulder at the walkway, but Aleishia was gone.

Aleishia knew her way to the lower level. Palpatine had destroyed many things, but beneath the Imperial trappings the bones of the Temple were still intact and she would have known it in her sleep, known it blindfolded. It made hunting easier.

_Though the quarry knows the territory, too_.

Or did he? Aleishia let herself examine it now, when it no longer mattered. She had always maintained to Thrawn that whatever the shell of a human was, it was no longer Mihall. Whatever had made him unique was gone, and there was only a dead puppet of the machine. Seeing Serhal (she clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes tight, willing the grief to pass) she could no longer assure herself of that. If Serhal, a Chiss warrior to be sure but no more Force-sensitive than Thrawn or the rest of Lisetha's family, could find the mental strength to break away from the machine's conditioning after all this time, but Mihall could not . . . .

She stopped herself. One way or another, it did not matter now.

She reached the next walkway, two storeys down, and paused to gauge her surroundings. She could no longer hear alarms in the distance and wasn't sure that was a good thing. Though by now, everyone must have known the situation and hopefully anyone not involved in the defense was long gone. Thrawn would be disappointed if most of the Rebel high command were wiped out and he was forced to cobble together a government from whatever remained. A task Lisetha would have relished–

Aleishia put the thought aside, and cleared her mind. The Force might not be stronger here in truth, it might simply be a trick of memory, but it felt stronger, more connected. As such she was ready when the green blade slashed out from behind a column and parried, forcing not-Mihall out from cover.

_No. Mihall._ So close, with her mind so clear, it was impossible to ignore. There was no spark, no warmth, but his sense in the Force was still Mihall's, one she knew better than almost anyone else's. And in the gaunt, bloodless face, they were still Mihall's eyes, even if there was no hint of recognition there. Now that she had seen Serhal, she knew what those cables and wires along his skin were and knew what would happen in any attempt to remove them.

_Mihall, but already gone._

She was retreating, she realized, slowly but surely yielding ground. He was driving her toward a massive set of double doors that she knew lead to one of the innumerable balcony plazas on these middle levels. Whether the safety fields were still operational was anyone's guess, and even a Jedi would need incredible luck to survive a fall. His saber style remained the same, and if the stilted movements slowed him, it wasn't enough for her to make up the deficit. He had always been her superior in this and from the start, when they had only been padawan and master, she had known on some level she would never be his equal.

Of course, right now, she did not have to be better. Only smarter. Quicker. And able to finish him this time.

She could feel the doors looming behind her and reached back with the Force, feeling his own effort at the same time and the doors buckled on their massive hinges as the dual push slammed them open. A small part of Aleishia's mind was glad, joyful even, to work together one last time even in destruction. But that was the extent of it–if he noticed, he gave no indication, his strikes coming faster, choppier than she remembered but still brutal, wearing, and she knew she was tiring faster.

It surprised her somehow it was broad daylight. It seemed, after so long in space, on Csilla, running and hiding, it ought to be dark. But she didn't have the time nor, she realized, the energy to marvel at the Coruscant skyline in the sun.

"Do you remember this place?" she asked, wishing she didn't hear the winded tone in her own voice. Mihall didn't reply, but she thought there was a flicker of distraction in his eyes. "We met here. I saw you first here, in the Temple. I don't know when you first saw me. You never said. You must remember." Her saber felt impossibly light in her hands, spinning in more parries than attacks. "Do you remember the last time–on the moon? When you were truly you?"

The overhand strike came harder than she anticipated and her knees buckled with the effort of blocking it. "I remember. I remember thinking we had all the unknown galaxy to ourselves. I remember the places we were going to explore. I remember the things we were going to teach our child."

Mihall wavered. Blinked.

Aleishia felt the faintest flicker of what might have been hope. More, at least, than she'd felt in a long time. And finally, after all these years, something akin to peace. "I want you to know that I remember. That no matter what they've made you into, I know who you truly are. That I know none of this is what you ever wanted, Mihall. And I want you to know that I forgive you."

He jolted again, like a droid with a malfunctioning motivator, and she lunged. Her aim was true, but he suddenly wasn't quite where she thought, and her saber only tore through some of the wiring that ran over and through the black armor. He made a sound more like metal tearing and she saw the sparks, the spasmodic jerk of his upper body. That was what drew her eye, distracted her, and she didn't see the sweep of the green blade until she knew it was far too late and she was far too tired and old to move in time.

Aleishia wondered, in the half-second left to her, how many of the Jedi she had known had felt the same, here in their Temple home, when Vader had come and destroyed the Order. Then she closed her eyes.

_I forgive you_ , she thought, and gave herself up to the Force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link to the full portrait my new user picture is cropped from. Warning: could be construed as a spoiler!](https://grandadmiralslady.tumblr.com/post/170119959431/ymirr-art-blog-fullbody-type-1-commissions-but)


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